L  J I  A  NS  yy 


A   BOOK 

OF 

DEAR    DEAD   WOMEN 


A  BOOK  OF  DEAR 
DEAD  WOMEN 


BY 


EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD 


"  Dear  dead  women  with  such  faces  "- 

BEOWNIKQ 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1911 


Copyright,  1909,  1911, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  riyhts  reserved 
Published  March,  1911 


THE   UNIVERSITY    PRESS,    CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


I  WISH  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness 
to  The  Smart  Set  for  permission  to  reprint 
"The  Painter  of  Dead  Women,"  which 
appeared  in  the  issue  of  January,  1910. 

EDNA  WORTHLEY  UNDERWOOD. 


2G38795 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES  ....  1 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN   .     .  64 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA    ...  92 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE  .     .     .  133 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 144 

THE   SACRED   RELICS    OF   SAINT   Eu- 

THYMIUS 158 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 194 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 257 

THE  KING  286 


ONE   OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

FROM   THE   DIARY   OF   THE    COUNTESS   TATJANA 
TSCHASKA 

"Polonus  sum, 
Poloni  nihil  a  me  alienum  puto." 

ESTATE  MIODUSCHWESKI, 
NEAR  WARSAW  ON  THE  VISTULA, 
June  8,  1806. 

TVTEVER  did  spring  come  so  early.  In 
•^  ^  April,  when  the  country  is  as  white  as 
the  coverlet  on  my  bed,  fields  were  dotted 
with  black  rings  at  the  base  of  trees  which 
glistened  with  moisture. 

Returning  birds  twittered  under  the  eaves. 
Rivers  awoke  and  became  merry.  In  the 
distance  rose  the  smoke  of  melting  snow. 
Even  in  the  North  —  in  White  Russia  —  so 
travelers  tell,  the  ice  broke.  Now  the 
country  is  wonderful. 

I  have  seen  the  foam-edged  waves  of  the 

Baltic  come  rolling  in  by  the  mouth  of  the 

Niemen,  just  as  spring  rolls  northward  its 

foam   of  flowers  —  to   rescue   us   from  the 

[1] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


grasp  of  winter.  In  the  same  way,  I  wonder, 
will  the  army  of  France  come  northward 
to  rescue  Poland  from  the  grasp  of  Russia? 
That  is  what  every  one  talks  about.  That 
is  what  every  one  hopes.  I  hope  it,  too,  but 
somehow  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  have  no 
faith  in  France.  Yet  it  would  be  no  act  of 
generosity  on  her  part.  We  Poles  have  bled 
for  her  on  every  battlefield  of  Europe.  It 
is  little  that  in  return  she  should  give  the 
nation  life.  France  may  intend  to  do  this. 
It  is  hard  to  tell  now.  No  trustworthy  news 
reaches  us.  The  Prussians  suppress  and 
burn  the  mail  lest  we  take  heart  and  rebel. 
They  say,  however,  that  the  Great  Napoleon 
has  conquered  Italy  and  is  now  making 
plans  for  the  North. 

June  12,  1806.  The  country  is  lovely! 
The  avenue  of  poplars  that  leads  to  the  house 
is  enveloped  in  lustrous  gauze.  The  birches 
and  the  willows  and  the  lindens  are  green 

flames  that  shake  in  the  light.     / 

[21 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssss^sssssssssssssssssss^sssssssss 

In  the  fields  I  can  see  the  white  head-ker 
chiefs  of  women  who  are  working,  and  be 
yond,  the  white  spire  of  the  church.  Those 
two  white  objects  symbolize  Poland  —  hard 
work  and  hope  —  the  effort  for  something 
beyond  and,  perhaps,  unattainable. 

I  love  this  country  with  its  fine  distances 
and  long  levels  where  the  eye  is  not  impeded. 
Yet  it  has  affected  our  natures,  and  not 
always  advantageously.  It  has  made  us 
think  that  great  things  are  too  near  and  too 
easy  to  get. 

Small  wonder  that  others  have  coveted 
Poland !  —  the  Swedes  among  their  rocks, 
where  they  have  only  fish  to  eat;  the  bar 
barous  Russians,  buried  in  winter  and  snow; 
Prussia  for  the  trade  facilities  of  the  Vistula; 
and  Austria  because  she  is  greedy  of  every 
thing. 

The  armies  of  the  Continent  have  swept 
across  Poland.  It  is  the  highway  that  leads 
to  war. 

Here  on  our  estate  and  southward  to  the 
[31 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


is  sure  to  punish!    Then  we   named   Yek- 
Katarina1  "The  Fury  of  the  North." 

What  will  eventually  become  of  Poland? 
Who  next  will  be  greedy  of  it?  I  have  a 
presentiment  —  which  I  dare  not  whisper  to 
any  one  —  that  in  years  to  come  it  will  be 
only  a  name,  a  great  and  glorious  name,  that 
signifies,  in  a  world  whose  patriotism  and 
fineness  commercialism  has  dulled,  the  im 
possible  dream  of  freedom. 

June  30,  1806.  My  honored  mother  came 
to  me  this  morning  and  broached  the  subject 
of  my  marriage.  Since  I  had  heard  nothing 
for  several  days,  I  hoped  it  had  been  laid 
aside  for  the  present. 

'You  are  past  your  twenty-first  birthday, 
an  age  when  girls  of  your  rank  have  been 
married  three  years.  Soon  you  will  be  an 

1  Great  Catherine.  In  the  middle  of  the  Eight 
eenth  Century  the  Russians  called  Catherine  II. 
Yek-Katarina,  which  is  equivalent  in  English  to 
Arch-Catherine. 

[61 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

ssssss^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

old   maid.     Have  you   no   interest   in   the 
matter?" 

"I  hoped  you  would  permit  me  to  enjoy 
myself  in  the  country.  It  may  be  the  last 
summer  that  I  shall  be  at  home,"  I  ventured. 

Here  my  honored  mother  brushed  away 
a  tear,  but  soon  returned  valiantly  to  the 
subject. 

:<You  have  read  too  much.  You  want  a 
story-book  life." 

"That  is  not  it.  I  do  not  want  to  marry 
until  - 

"Until  what?" 

"It  is  settled." 

"What  is  settled?" 

"The  fate  of  Poland." 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  that?" 

"Nothing;  but  I  feel  that  I  might  do 
something.  There  is  in  me  the  power  to 
do  something  - 

"And  you  are  going  to  sit  and  waste  your 
youth  for  that?  Marry,  raise  up  sons  for 
Poland!  That's  the  thing  to  do!" 

[7] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sseeseesesssesseeseeegsssssesesessegess 

"I  do  not  wish  to  offend  you,  my  honored 
mother,  but  I  wish  you  would  drop  the 
subject  until  late  summer  —  " 

"Look  at  your  friends  —  how  well  they 
are  married!  There  is  the  Countess  of 
Tisenhaus,  who  has  married  a  Frenchman 
of  birth,  a  peer  of  the  realm,  Count  de 
Choiseul-Gouffier.  Anna  Tyskiewicz  has  be 
come  Countess  Potocka;  Princess  Czarto- 
ryska  has  married  the  Prince  of  Wirthem- 
berg;  Anna  Lapouschkine,  by  her  marriage 
with  Prince  Paul  Gavrilowitsch  Gargarin, 
is  one  of  the  beauties  of  the  Court  of  Russia. 
I  should  think  you  would  want  to  play  a 
part  in  the  world!  Do  you  not  owe  it 
to  your  family?"  exclaimed  my  honored 
mother  in  such  exasperation  that  she  was 
unable  to  continue  the  discussion.  This  is 
the  way  these  scenes  end.  They  grieve  me 
and  vex  her.  And  what  good  comes  of  them? 

July  5,  1806.     My  honored  mother  has 
submitted  to  me  a  list  of  names  which  have 
[8] 


eeesse&eseeeseeeeeeeeeeese&eeeee&eseess 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


received  her  approval  and  that  of  my 
honored  father  and  grandfather.  This  is 
merely  a  conciliatory  formality.  They  will 
choose  whom  they  please.  Since  I  have  met 
none  of  them  and  know  only  their  families, 
it  makes  little  difference.  The  thing  nearest 
my  heart  is  that  the  marriage  be  deferred. 
Therefore  I  considered  those  at  a  distance 
from  Warsaw.  I  picked  up  the  list,  read  it 
through  with  a  show  of  interest,  and  checked 
Count  Krasinski1  and  Prince  Adam  Czar- 
toryisky;  the  former  is  in  Paris,  and  the 
latter  is  attached  to  the  Court  of  Russia. 
The  names  pleased  my  honored  mother. 
There  are  none  nobler  in  Poland.  Peace  is 
restored  —  for  a  time. 

July  10,  1806.  Yesterday  we  attended  a 
reception  in  Warsaw  given  by  the  Countess 
Stanilas  Potocka  for  her  new  daughter,  the 

1  Krasinski  —  Count  Sigismund,  a  Polish  writer  best 
known  as  the  author  of  Irydion,  which,  under  the  thin 
covering  of  a  fable,  tells  the  tragic  story  of  Poland. 
He  was  a  prominent  figure  in  the  Paris  of  that  day. 

[91 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

Countess  Anna.  My  honored  mother  was 
in  high  spirits  because  of  my  apparent  ac 
quiescence  to  her  plans,  and  happily  pic 
tured  me  settled  more  splendidly  than  is 
the  Countess  Anna. 

The  Countess  Anna,  while  not  pretty,  is 
charming  and  girlish.  She  told  us  about 
the  country  place  which  is  being  built  for 
her  outside  of  Warsaw.  She  has  named  it 
Natoline.  The  old  Count  Stanilas  Potocki 
-  who  is  now  in  ill-health  because  of  years  of 
exposure  endured  in  the  Ukraine  —  is  helping 
with  the  decorative  scheme.  He  is  a  great 
connoisseur  of  art.  They  say  his  taste  is 
respected  abroad.  His  art  gallery  is  the 
finest  in  Poland,  except  that  owned  by  the 
Czartoryisky  —  the  Prince  General  —  in  the 
"Blue  Palace." 

While  he  was  escorting  the  ladies,  my 
honored  mother  and  myself  among  the 
number,  through  the  hall  where  the  pictures 
are  hung,  I  made  an  unfortunate  remark  for 
which  my  honored  mother  reprimanded  me 
[101 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

severely.  We  came  to  a  picture,  purchased 
recently  (I  cannot  remember  the  Italian 
painter's  name),  which  has  caused  comment. 
It  represents  a  band  of  horsemen  going  at 
full  speed  through  the  streets  of  an  ancient 
city.  They  come  to  a  river  bridged  only  by 
one  board.  Across  this  foaming  chasm 
beckons  an  impossibly  beautiful  sprite,  half- 
hidden  in  whose  enveloping  gauzes  is  a 
skeleton,  the  symbol  of  death.  The  skeleton 
holds  out  a  crown. 

"Ah!"  I  exclaimed,  "above  that  fleeting 
phantom,  whose  possession  is  death,  should 
be  written  Poland." 

There  was  a  dreadful  hush.  Eyes  looked 
into  eyes.  Every  one  knows  that  with  his 
Cossack  warriors  of  the  Ukraine  Count 
Stanilas  wanted  to  wrest  the  crown  from 
the  Commonwealth. 

It  is  the  talk  in  Warsaw,  too,  that  negotia 
tions  are  going  forward  for  my  marriage 
with  a  Czartoryisky,  who  likewise  coveted 
the  crown  of  Poland. 

[11] 


3333SSS33338333383333SS33333S38S33S3333 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
ssssssssssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssss 

I  wonder  if  I  have  an  unfortunate  tongue! 
I  must  remember  not  to  say  everything  I 
think. 

Countess  Waleweska  was  present.  She 
wore  a  red  velvet  dress.  She  did  not  look 
so  well  as  usual.  We  are  called  the  two 
prettiest  women  in  Warsaw.  She  is  tall 
and  blond;  that  is  why  the  red  did  not  be 
come  her.  I  am  plump  and  petite,  with 
dark  eyes,  dark  skin,  and  blond  hair. 

Later  I  forgot  my  chagrin.  I  met  Pan 
Kasimir  Brodzinski.1  He  is  entertaining. 
He  has  written  some  interesting  things  of 
late,  too,  about  Polish  literature.  At  once 
I  asked  him,  "Why  are  there  never  any  new 
Polish  novels  ?  We  stopped  on  our  way  at 
a  book-seller's  to  get  something  to  take 
back  to  Mioduschweski.  Is  no  one  doing 
anything?" 

"Unfortunately  that  is  the  case,  Countess 
Tat  j  ana." 

1  Pan  Kasimir  Brodzinski,  Polish  critic. 
[1*1 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

''The  only  Polish  novel  I  found  was 
Valeria,  by  Baroness  Kriidener." 

:<  Your  honored  mother  will  object  to  that, 
Countess  Tatjana." 

"Why,  PanBrodzinski?" 

"It  is  a  chronique  scandaleuse  of  the  writ 
er's  life  in  Venice  and  Copenhagen." 

"I  found  the  last  volume  of  Walter  Scott. 
They  say  Her  Imperial  Majesty,  the  Em 
press,  reads  nothing  else.  You  will  laugh 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  bought  two  books 
just  for  the  interest  they  have  aroused  in 
the  Great  Napoleon  —  Corinne  and  Werther 
—  which  he  has  carried  with  him  for  months 
at  a  time." 

Here  Pan  Brodzinski  leaned  forward  and 
his  face  became  eloquent: 

"Let  me  tell  you  something:  the  writer 
of  that  book,  Goethe,  and  Napoleon,  and  an 
Englishman  whom  you  have  not  read  — 
Byron  —  rule  the  minds  of  the  age.  The 
entire  civilized  world  is  in  raptures  over 
them.  Do  you  know,  a  friend  of  mine 
[13] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

lately  returned  from  Russia  told  me  that 
Russian  soldiers  stationed  in  the  lonely 
regions  of  the  Caucasus  are  learning  the 
English  language  just  to  read  Byron." 

Just  as  I  was  getting  ready  to  ask  Pan 
Brodzinski  the  latest  news  of  the  Grande 
Armee,  our  hostess  summoned  us  to  the 
drawing-room  to  hear  some  recitations  by 
Adam  Mickiewicz.1  He  is  a  remarkable 
child  —  not  more  than  seven  and  he  declaims 
like  an  orator.  The  strange  part  about  it 
is  he  will  give  only  Polish  pieces.  Nor 
indeed  will  he  answer  if  you  address  him  in 
French.  The  Mickiewicz  belong  to  the  old 
schlachta  (nobility)  of  Lithuania.  I  have 
seen  their  ancestral  home.  It  is  like  the 
palace  of  a  king. 

1  One  of  the  greatest  poets  of  Poland.  His  poems, 
ballads  and  his  sonnets  —  in  which  he  pictures  the 
Crimea  and  the  mountain  world  of  Southern  Russia 
—  have  been  translated  into  the  languages  of  the 
Continent.  He  is  numbered  among  the  Polish 
patriots  of  1830. 

[14] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

eseeeseesss&eseeessegeseesesesseseeeses 

July  11,  1806.  The  post  horn  awoke  us, 
blowing  furiously.  We  jumped  up  and 
dressed  without  crossing  ourselves  or  say 
ing  a  "Hail  Mary." 

In  the  yard  was  a  messenger  from  Warsaw 
to  tell  us  that  Napoleon  had  defeated  the 
English  in  Italy  and  was  striding  north\vard 
like  a  giant  in  seven-league  boots.  I  wonder 
what  he  is  like,  this  world-hero  who  is  writing 
his  name  in  blood  across  the  face  of  Europe. 
They  say  that  he  is  handsome.  Heroes,  of 
course,  are  always  handsome. 

July  18,  1806.  My  honored  grandfather, 
who  is  eighty  and  an  adherent  of  our  ancient 
customs,  came  in  this  morning  while  I  was 
reading  a  French  book  to  my  sister  Mischa. 
He  flew  into  a  rage  because  I  was  not  read 
ing  Polish. 

He  is  worth  seeing.    He  attracts  attention 

on  the  streets  of  Warsaw.    He  still  wears  the 

zupan  and  the  kontusch,  and  when  he  goes 

abroad,  the  burka  fastened  across  his  breast 

[15] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

with  silver  clasps  whereon  are  the  arms  of 
the  Tschaski. 

"  You  are  just  like  the  rest ! "  he  exclaimed, 
but  in  so  grieved  a  tone  that  my  heart  went 
out  to  him.  "  And  I  hoped  better  things  of 
you!  There  are  no  more  Poles  in  Poland! 
We  are  a  French  race  now.  We  speak 
French,  read  French,  follow  French  modes 
in  thought  and  dress.  When  you  enter  the 
home  of  a  person  of  rank,  it  is  as  if  you 
entered  a  drawing-room  in  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain.  There  is  nothing  to  be  seen  that 
is  characteristic  of  us.  It  is  right  that  we 
should  cease  to  be  a  nation  when  we  have 
ceased  to  be  ourselves. 

"Why  do  not  the  Germans  dress  like  the 
Italians,  or  the  Spaniards  like  the  Russians? 
Would  it  not  be  just  as  reasonable?  In  the 
houses  of  fashion  we  see  the  same  gilt  furni 
ture  upholstered  in  silk,  the  same  mirrors 
in  frames  of  decorated  Saxon  porcelain,  a 
profusion  of  frail  ornaments  made  of  china, 

tables  inlaid  with  marble  or  bordered  with 
[161 


ONE  or  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

delicate  plaques  of  Sevres,  picture  galleries, 
tapestries,  silk-hung  walls  —  all  the  things 
that  create  effeminacy  and  a  luxurious 
forgetfulness." 

I  could  not  answer,  because  I  know  that 
it  is  true.  Yet  why  should  we  not  love 
beautiful  things!  Is  it  our  duty  to  live  in 
huts  in  the  wild  forests  of  Lithuania  just 
because  we  are  Poles  and  belong  to  the 
North? 

July  26,  1806.  Things  are  in  a  sad  state. 
Everywhere  uncertainty,  indecision.  Here 
no  one  dares  do  anything.  Some  are 
under  the  protection  of  Austria;  some 
under  the  protection  of  Russia;  others 
found  their  hope  on  France,  and  others 
vacillate  in  indecision.  Was  there  ever 
such  a  state  of  things!  Truly  Polonia  con- 
fusione  regitur. 

August  6,  1806.    At  dinner  last  night,  my 
honored  grandfather  regaled  us  with  stories 
[171 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
eessesseggseesess&sssgssesessssssssssgs 

of  his  youth.  He  was  in  Paris  at  the  time  of 
the  second  "partition." 

One  night  at  a  soiree  some  one  said: 
"How  it  will  grieve  the  Poles  to  see  their 
country  cut  up  again!  What  will  they  do?" 

Quickly  the  answer  came:  "Give  balls 
and  masquerades  in  Warsaw.  When  I  think 
of  Poland,  I  know  that  they  are  dancing  — 
always  dancing  in  Warsaw." 

I  do  not  know  why  I  write  this,  or  why  it 
impressed  me  so.  If  the  French  were  the 
best  dancers  in  Europe,  would  they  not  be 
proud  of  it  too?  They  are  jealous.  We  are 
more  French  than  they. 

August  17,  1806.  My  new  frocks  have 
come  from  Paris.  I  am  glad  that  my  hon 
ored  grandfather  was  not  present  when  they 
were  unpacked.  There  are  a  number  of 
gauze  ball  dresses  made  with  shirred  over- 
skirts  caught  up  with  little  flowers,  and 
several  robes  rondes.  They  are  the  dernier 
cri  of  fashion. 

[18] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. 

August  37,  1806.  I  have  had  a  splendid 
day.  Pan  Anton  Malzweski  *  called.  It 
has  rained  for  a  week,  and  we  have  had  no 
guests.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  I  greeted 
him  in  the  Polish  manner:  "Praised  be 
Jesus,  the  Christ." 

He  answered  quickly  in  that  impulsive 
way  I  like:  "In  all  eternity." 

We  are  of  an  age  and  great  friends.  He 
has  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything. 
He  has  seen  Prince  Adam  Czartoryisky  in 
Imperial  Russia.  He  told  me  all  sorts  of 
things  about  him.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
notable  figures  in  the  court  set  and  the 
desire  of  all  the  ladies. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  when  we 
were  quite  alone,  he  confided  to  me  his 
ambition.  What  do  you  suppose  it  is?  To 
be  a  poet!  I  gravely  answered:  "All  Poles 
are  poets." 

"But  I  am  going  to  be  a  great  one  in  the 

1  Polish  poet  who  wrote  Maria,  An  Heroic  Tale 
of  the  Ukraine. 

[19] 


esessesseeseesese&eseseeeeseseeeeegeess 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

English  manner.  As  soon  as  the  wars  are 
over  and  I  have  time,  I  am  going  to  set  to 
work.  It  was  Lord  Byron  who  discovered 
to  me  my  talent.  The  name  of  the  first 
book  is  chosen:  Maria,  An  Heroic  Tale  of  the 
Ukraine.  In  it  there  is  to  be  a  song  —  partly 
written  down  now  —  called  The  Carnival  of 
Venice,  which  is  what  Byron  and  I  thought 
of  the  Venetian  nights." 

He  talked  with  such  fury,  such  discon 
nected  haste,  that  I  could  only  gasp:  "You 
have  seen  Lord  Byron!" 

:<Yes,  and  I  gave  him  the  subject  for  a 
poem  —  Mazeppa  —  which  will  be  trans 
lated  for  us." 

September  5,  1806.  We  have  just  heard 
that  the  Grande  Armee  has  crossed  the 
borders  of  Prussia.  Prussia  tried  to  put 
herself  on  a  war  footing  secretly.  In  return, 
Napoleon  has  seized  Wesel,  a  fortress  by 
the  Rhine.  Is  he  so  near,  and  we  did  not 

know? 

[201 


eeee&esseeeeeseesee&eese&e&seeesse&ss&e 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

September  11,  1806.  The  harvest  is  under 
way.  The  fields  are  dotted  with  grain  stacks 
that  are  for  all  the  world  like  round  towers.y^ 
I  look  at  them  and  dream  of  Napoleon  and 
the  fortress  by  the  Rhine.  Could  anything 
be  sillier! 

September  21,  1806.  My  honored  grand 
father  had  company  to-day.  Count  Severin 
Rzewuski,  Count  Stanilas  Potocki,  and  the 
Prince  General.  The  Prince  General  is 
feeble  and  ill,  although  he  conceals  it  bravely. 
He  still  keeps  up  the  elegant  courtly  life  he 
knew  in  his  youth,  although  it  is  evident  he 
cannot  last  long.  Every  one  says  that  he 
will  die  some  night  at  the  card-table,  dressed 
in  the  stiff,  formal  evening  dress  of  a  century 
ago,  his  courtiers  gathered  about  him. 

Little  was  talked  of  save  the  political 
situation.  We  are  upon  the  eve  of  world- 
changing  events.  There  is  evident  the 
ominousness  that  precedes  the  storm.  The 
old  gentlemen  talked  freely.  They  are  of 
[21] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

one  political  faith  and  have  deeply  at  heart 
the  welfare  of  Poland. 

It  must  have  been  a  great  life  that  was 
lived  in  their  youth.  The  Prince  General 
says  that  there  will  never  be  anything  to 
equal  the  old  aristocracy  of  Poland.  Their 
life  was  the  most  sumptuous  and  luxurious 
in  Europe.  Mischa  and  I  listened.  It  was 
like  a  romance.  Count  Rzewuski  says  that 
it  is  our  own  fault  that  we  are  where  we  are 
to-day.  In  the  old  days  each  was  too  great 
to  acknowledge  a  greater. 

:'You  are  right,"  replied  Count  Potocki. 
"He  who  will  not  obey  his  own  king  will  be 
forced  to  obey  the  king  of  others.  *  After 
feasting  follows  fasting.' ' 

Our  grandparents  tell  only  of  wars  and 
bloodshed.  In  other  countries,  I  wonder, 
are  there  other  memories? 

October  6,  1806.  Napoleon  is  in  Prussia. 
Terrible  things  are  happening.  We  do  not 
know  just  what, because  little  news  reaches  us. 

[22] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

ssesssesseges&eegssessegseesesesssses&s 

October  12,  1806.  The  excitement  in  War 
saw  cannot  be  imagined.  Every  few  hours 
a  messenger  arrives  with  a  blowing  of  trum 
pets.  Why  should  not  we  tremble  when  the 
Czar  of  Imperial  Russia  trembles  on  his 
throne? 

Yet  Warsaw  rejoices  —  and  dances. 

October  18,  1806.  My  engagement  to 
Prince  Adam  Czartoryisky  has  been  an 
nounced.  I  had  no  word  in  the  matter;  I 
was  not  consulted. 

I  have  received  a  letter  from  Prince  Adam 
and  as  betrothal  gift  a  kanak  —  an  antique 
Polish  necklace  of  wrought  silver  set  with 
round  disks  of  ivory  upon  each  of  which 
is  carved  an  eagle  —  the  white  eagle  of 
Poland.  I  ought  to  be  proud  and  happy. 
Prince  Adam  is  Minister  of  Foreign  Af 
fairs  at  the  Court  of  Russia.  My  honored 
mother  says  that  my  position  will  be 
better  than  that  of  the  Countess  Anna 
Potocka. 

[23] 


S28S3S8SSS33S333S33S238S833338SS3S33333 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
S8S8383SS388S338S383S383SS883S3333SSS33 

October  25,  1806.  Last  night  there  was  a 
celebration  at  the  Prince  General's  in  the 
"  Blue  Palace,"  in  honor  of  my  betrothal  to 
his  son  Prince  Adam.  Prince  Adam  could 
not  be  present.  He  was  represented  by  his 
dearest  friend,  M.  Novosiltzow,  likewise  at 
tache  of  the  Russian  Court. 

He  brought  with  him  a  gift  from  His 
Imperial  Master,  a  miniature  of  the  Empress 
Elizabeth  surrounded  with  diamonds  and 
strung  upon  blue  riband.  M.  Novosiltzow 
attached  it  to  my  shoulder  in  the  presence 
of  the  guests.  I  am  now  a  dame  de  la  portrait. 

We  made  merry  in  the  good  old  Polish 
way.  First  we  danced  the  Polonaise,  going 
through  nearly  every  room  in  the  house  and 
up  and  down  all  the  stairs.  Then  the  Prince 
General  made  a  speech,  as  was  the  custom 
in  his  youth,  at  the  end  of  the  Polonaise. 
Next,  toasts  were  called  for.  Mine  was 
drunk  from  one  of  my  jeweled  slippers, 
which  every  one  present  declared  to  be 
smaller  and  shapelier  than  those  worn  by 
[241 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

the  Archduchess  of  Austria,  Marie  Louise, 
who  has  the  prettiest  foot  in  Europe.  It  was 
splendid  and  solemn,  but  some  way  my 
heart  was  not  in  it.  My  honored  mother, 
however,  was  gay  and  happy  enough  for  two. 
I  kept  thinking  —  I  wonder  if  outside  through 
the  night  he  is  marching  toward  Warsaw, 
*•  the  man  who  has  the  face  of  an  antique  god. 


October  12,  1806.  The  expected  has  hap 
pened.  There  has  been  a  terrible  battle  at 
Jena.  Prince  Louis  fell.  A  new  sun  has 
risen  over  Europe.  Napoleon  is  master  of 
Berlin,  and  Queen  Louise  is  kneeling  at  the 
feet  of  a  soldier  of  fortune.  I  wonder  if  he 
is  greater  than  all  other  men,  or  if  it  is  only 
that  he  knows  one  game  better  —  the  game 
of  war.  He  moves  armies  as  if  they  were 
pawns  upon  a  chess-board. v 

November  12,  1806.    Autumn  is  upon  us. 

The  harvest  has   left  the  fields   bare   and 

brown.     In  the  poplars  there  is   a  shiver 

J  that  tells  of  winter.    The  leaves  are  a  faded 

[25] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
esssseeesesseseseeeeeeeseeeeeesesseeess 

yellow,  which  is  the  color  of  the  things  of 
yesterday.  To-morrow  we  go  to  Warsaw 
for  the  winter. 

November  25,  1806.  St.  Catherine's  day. 
This  was  to  have  been  my  wedding-day. 
St.  Catherine  is  the  patroness  of  happy  mar 
riages.  It  is  altogether  impossible  for  Prince 
Adam  to  leave  Russia.  The  only  hope  of 
Polish  freedom  is  his  friendship  with  the 
Emperor.  Now  is  a  momentous  time.  He 
must  be  at  his  ear  to  estimate  his  moods, 
that  he  may  whisper  at  the  propitious 
moment,  memento  Polonies!  He  writes: 
"We  Poles  who  have  lost  the  right  to  fight 
upon  the  field  of  battle,  must,  as  a  last 
necessity,  resort  to  the  coward's  weapons  — 
cajolery  and  diplomacy." 

November  27, 1806.    Napoleon  is  in  Posen ! 

December  18,  1806.     I  received  a  letter 
from  Prince  Adam  to-day  which  brings  us 
nearer  together  than   any  he  has   written 
[26] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss^sssssssss. 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

before.  He  has  taken  me  into  his  confidence. 
He  has  a  plan  for  saving  Poland.  It  is  this; 
to  use  his  influence  with  the  Emperor  to 
bring  about  a  defensive  union  of  Russia  and 
England,  each  of  which  alone  is  strong  enough 
to  check  the  advance  of  France.  Then  it 
will  be  to  the  advantage  of  each  that  Poland 
be  independent,  the  future's  formidable  bar 
rier  against  continental  aggression. 

"I  shall  make  Alexander  see,"  he  writes, 
"that  the  partition  of  Poland  was  foolish." 

This  is  the  object  of  his  life.  For  this  he 
is  sacrificing  his  youth  and  his  happiness  at 
the  Court  of  Russia. 

My  honored  mother  says,  in  case  he  suc 
ceeds,  a  king  will  be  chosen  for  Poland,  and 
it  is  sure  to  be  either  Prince  Adam  or  Prince 
Poniatowski. 

Nothing  can  make  me  believe  that  n£'r- 
sonal  motives  enter  into  his  ambition. V  He 
is  the  most  disinterested  of  men.  All  this 
time  that  he  has  been  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  for  Russia,  he  has  received  no  salary. 
[27] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss^sssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


He  refused  to  accept  money,  orders,  or 
insignia  of  rank  from  the  nation  that  op 
pressed  his  race.  He  said  that  he  consid 
ered  it  his  duty  to  free  Poland,  since  it  was 
his  own  family,  the  Czartoryisky,  who  in 
ancient  days  first  invited  the  Russians  into 
the  country. 

(  He  has  no  faith  in  Napoleon.  ;  He  hates 
him.  It  is  his  desire  to  be  the  instrument 
of  his  downfall.  He  writes:  "Napoleon  is 
the  scourge  of  Europe.  It  is  the  duty  of 
nations  to  unite  and  make  an  end  of  him." 

As  for  Poland,  no  time  is  to  be  lost,  be 
cause  the  nature  of  Alexander  is  undergoing 
a  change.  He  no  longer  has  Utopian  dreams 
of  presenting  nations  with  their  freedom. 
As  far  as  his  weak  nature  will  permit,  he  is 
being  Russianized.  Now,  when  the  subject 
of  Poland  is  mentioned,  there  must  be  some 
other  object  —  and  that  for  Russia's  good. 

Then  he  wrote  of  life  and  people  in  St. 
Petersburg.    He  went  to  the  first  night  of  the 
new  opera,  II  Barbiere  di  Seviglia.     It  was 
[281 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
eseeeeseeesessssesesesseeeseseeseeeeees 

written  by  Signer  Paisiello,  a  protege  of  the 
Great  Catherine. 

There  has  been  a  new  play  brought  out 
by  a  Russian  at  Knipper's  Theater  —  Roslaw 
by  Kniazin.  Prince  Adam  did  not  care  for 
it.  However,  as  soon  as  it  is  put  on  sale  at 
Glosunow's,  he  will  send  me  a  copy  that  I 
may  judge  for  myself. 

December  21,  1806.  Napoleon  is  in  War 
saw!  The  joy  of  the  people  is  beyond 
description.  It  must  have  been  like  this 
when  our  own  king,  Jan  Sobieski,  returned 
with  conquering  arms.  We  have  greeted 
him  as  if  our  freedom  were  assured.  But 
he  has  said  nothing.  He  has  made  no 
promises. 

The  streets  are  gay  with  colors.  Side  by 
side  are  the  gold  eagle  of  France  and  the 
white  eagle  of  Poland.  The  soldiers  are 
banqueted  everywhere.  The  people  have 
gone  mad  and  dance  and  sing  without 
knowing  why. 

[29] 


eeessseeeeeseseeesesgse&sssesgseesseses 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


January  5,  1807.  We  have  not  given 
Napoleon  a  chance  to  ask  for  soldiers.  They 
are  rushing  to  him  in  such  numbers  it  is  as 
if  the  nation  threw  itself  at  his  feet  and 
cried:  "With  the  forehead!  With  the  fore 
head!" 

Prince  Poniatowski  has  raised  a  legion. 
Yesterday  the  consecration  of  their  arms 
took  place  in  Zielony  Plac.  When  I  looked 
at  the  youths  kneeling  at  the  altar,  it  seemed 
to  me  not  a  Christian  consecration,  but  a 
pagan  sacrifice  of  blood  in  honor  of  the  mod 
ern  Moloch  —  Napoleon. 

January  9,  1807.  My  honored  grand 
father  has  returned  from  inspecting  the 
French  troops.  He  says  that,  in  compari 
son  with  them,  our  old  armies  looked  like  a 
merrymaking  at  a  country  fair. 

January  11,  1807.     I  have  met  Napoleon! 
It  was  last  night.    I  am  still  so  excited  that 
I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  about  it.     The 
[30] 


8383333S333g388S8g883®ggS3SS3S3SgS38333 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

esesegsssessssssssseeseseeeseesessse&es 

ladies  of  Warsaw  have  been  vexed  that  he 
did  not  arrange  for  a  presentation.  Yester 
day  the  invitation  came.  At  nine-thirty 
we  were  assembled.  We  waited  a  full  hour, 
standing  in  nervous  expectation.  At  last 
the  door  by  which  we  knew  he  would  en 
ter  opened,  and  Talleyrand  appeared.  It 
seemed  minutes  before  he  spoke.  Then  he 
bowed  and  announced  —  "The  Emperor!" 
The  word  had  the  voice  of  the  thunders  and 
filled  all  space.  I  can  hear  it  now.  "  The 
Emperor!!" 

He  looked  like  a  god  who  in  haste  had 
been  made  a  man  and  made  too  small.  By 
some  accident  his  eyes  met  mine.  For  an 
instant  it  was  as  if  we  two  were  alone,  un 
conscious  of  the  crowd  that  swayed  between. 

As  the  ladies  filed  past  and  were  presented, 
I  felt  that  he  was  waiting  for  me.  Then  a 
terrible  nervousness  seized  me,  which  ex 
pressed  itself  in  a  sort  of  exaltation,  a  wild 
and  reckless  daring. 

When  my  turn  came,  he  stepped  forward 
[31] 


ssseese&sseeeseeeeesess&ssesseeeesseees 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


January  5,  1807.  We  have  not  given 
Napoleon  a  chance  to  ask  for  soldiers.  They 
are  rushing  to  him  in  such  numbers  it  is  as 
if  the  nation  threw  itself  at  his  feet  and 
cried:  "With  the  forehead!  With  the  fore 
head!" 

Prince  Poniatowski  has  raised  a  legion. 
Yesterday  the  consecration  of  their  arms 
took  place  in  Zielony  Plac.  When  I  looked 
at  the  youths  kneeling  at  the  altar,  it  seemed 
to  me  not  a  Christian  consecration,  but  a 
pagan  sacrifice  of  blood  in  honor  of  the  mod 
ern  Moloch  —  Napoleon. 

January  P,  1807.  My  honored  grand 
father  has  returned  from  inspecting  the 
French  troops.  He  says  that,  in  compari 
son  with  them,  our  old  armies  looked  like  a 
merrymaking  at  a  country  fair. 

January  11,  1807.     I  have  met  Napoleon! 
It  was  last  night.    I  am  still  so  excited  that 
I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  about  it.     The 
[30] 


883388SSgS3338SS388S8S8S®g33SS333S338S3 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

seseseessseeseessssseeseseseseessseesss 

ladies  of  Warsaw  have  been  vexed  that  he 
did  not  arrange  for  a  presentation.  Yester 
day  the  invitation  came.  At  nine-thirty 
we  were  assembled.  We  waited  a  full  hour, 
standing  in  nervous  expectation.  At  last 
the  door  by  which  we  knew  he  would  en 
ter  opened,  and  Talleyrand  appeared.  It 
seemed  minutes  before  he  spoke.  Then  he 
bowed  and  announced  —  "The  Emperor!" 
The  word  had  the  voice  of  the  thunders  and 
filled  all  space.  I  can  hear  it  now.  "  The 
Emperor!!" 

He  looked  like  a  god  who  in  haste  had 
been  made  a  man  and  made  too  small.  By 
some  accident  his  eyes  met  mine.  For  an 
instant  it  was  as  if  we  two  were  alone,  un 
conscious  of  the  crowd  that  swayed  between. 

As  the  ladies  filed  past  and  were  presented, 
I  felt  that  he  was  waiting  for  me.  Then  a 
terrible  nervousness  seized  me,  which  ex 
pressed  itself  in  a  sort  of  exaltation,  a  wrild 
and  reckless  daring. 

When  my  turn  came,  he  stepped  forward 
[31] 


SS8SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS» 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

seese&eseeeeeeeseeeseegsse&eseeesessess 

eagerly  and  asked  my  name.  "The  Count 
ess  Tat j ana  Tschaska." 

He  beckoned  me  to  him.  "I  am  sure  now 
that  I  shall  meet  in  Poland  the  only  ruler 
whom  I  fear." 

"And  whom  may  that  be,  Sire?" 

"The  Queen  of  Beauty, "Rowing  gallantly. 

I  retorted:  "One  of  our  Slav  poets  said 
long  ago:  'One  need  not  fear  a  Russian  Czar 
so  greatly  as  a  Polish  woman.' '  Then  I 
courtesied  and  moved  on. 

As  soon  as  the  presentations  were  over, 
I  saw  him  making  his  way  toward  me.  On 
the  instant  I  was  the  observed  of  all.  The 
crowd  fell  back,  seeing  that  it  was  his  will, 
and  left  us  alone.  I  was  conscious  of  a  sen 
sation  then  which  I  hope  will  never  be 
repeated  in  the  course  of  my  life.  It  was  as 
if  upon  the  instant  all  my  ideals,  all  my 
standards  of  living,  had  been  shattered.  It 
was  as  if  I  had  never  lived  before.  It  is  in 
such  moods  that  we  do  things  that  we  regret 
and  wonder  at  ever  after.  There  was  some- 
[321 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

thing  within  me  that  rushed  to  meet  him, 
that  swept  barriers  before  it.  Outwardly, 
however,  I  was  calm. 

When  he  came  near  enough  to  speak,  he 
asked  jestingly:  "Are  there  really  none  but 
nobles  in  Poland?" 

In  an  instant  I  was  on  my  mettle,  defiant 
and  scornful.  "Sire,  it  is  easier  to  be  a 
sovereign  prince  in  France  than  a  petty 
noble  in  Poland."  Then  I  read  such  ad 
miration  in  his  eyes  I  regretted  the  answer 
and  hastened  to  make  amends  by  inquiring, 
somewhat  awkwardly:  "Are  you  not  home 
sick  for  Paris,  here  in  the  North?" 

"How  could  I  be,  when  in  Warsaw  I  have 
found  another  and  a  gayer  Paris? "j// 

"Why  is  it  that  it  fascinates  the  foreigner 
so?" 

"Because  here  the  East  and  the  West 
meet.  The  streets  —  how  interesting  —  a 
scene  from  an  opera;  turbaned  Mussulmans, 
Janizaries,  Hungarians,  Russians  in  pointed 
caps,  Poles,  Tartars  —  " 
[331 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

S88SS3S3SS83S3S8S3S33SSS83S3S8S38S3S3S3 

"And  what  of  the  people  —  people  such  as 
are  here?" 

"I  do  not  care  so  much  for  the  men,  but 
I  never  saw  such  pretty  women.  In  them, 
too,  the  East  and  the  West  meet.  They 
unite  the  intelligence,  the  fine  presence  of 
the  West  with  the  fire  and  the  languor  of 
the  East." 

I  do  not  know  what  else  we  said.  We 
talked  with  merriment  and  unrestraint. 
Then  he  bowed,  spoke  a  few  words  with 
some  of  the  others,  and  retired.  He  has 
gray -blue  eyes  that  deepen  and  darken  when 
he  talks.  He  is  very  small  for  a  man,  but 
so  exquisitely  proportioned  that  he  gives 
the  impression  of  stateliness  and  height. 
His  voice  is  beautiful.  It  makes  the  heart 
vibrate.  Y 

January  12,  1807.  To-day  the  Emperor 
sent  one  of  his  aides  to  inquire  for  my 
health  and  to  bring  me  a  book  —  Comte  de 
Comminges.  An  enclosed  note  says  that 

[34] 


es&eeessesseeeseeseesesseseesesesseeses 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

eseeseseeeesseeessseesssesssesseesesses 

this  is  his  favorite  book  and  that  every  time 
he  reads  it  he  weeps.  Strange  man  who  can 
see  his  fellows  slaughtered  by  thousands, 
and  weep  over  the  mimic  passions  of  a 
book!  </ 

January  14,  1807.  At  the  Assembly  last 
night,  I  was  commanded  to  the  Emperor's 
whist  table.  No  sooner  had  I  sat  down 
than  he  turned  to  me  with  the  greatest  un 
restraint  of  manner.  "What  stakes  shall 
we  play  for,  my  little  Countess?" 

"When  one  plays  with  the  King  of  the 
World,  Sire,  it  should  be  for  nothing  less 
than  a  kingdom." 

"Well,  then,  what  shall  it  be?  Name 
it!" 

"The  freedom  of  Poland,  Sire." 

You  cannot  imagine  the  consternation. 
Every  one  was  so  frightened  that  I  began  to 
be  frightened,  too.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
vexed.  No  one  knows  better  how  to  value 
bravery. 

[35] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS3 

"Granted,  my  little  Countess!  And  I  will 
play  for  the  heart  of  the  bravest  of  Polish 
women." 

Then  the  game  began.  I  cannot  tell  how 
furiously  we  played.  It  was  as  if  the  fate 
of  the  world  hung  in  the  balance.  I  never 
lived  such  an  exciting  hour.  People  crowded 
around  to  learn  the  result.  Bets  were  made. 
Excitement  rose  to  fever  heat.  I  lost.  He 
leaned  across  the  table  and  grasped  my 
hands.  "Now  you  are  mine.  I  have  won 
you  fairly,  you  little  rebel!" 

Then  some  one  cried  out,  —  Prince  Murat 
I  think  it  was:  "Sire,  I  never  thought  to 
see  you  grasp  the  hand  of  Russia." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  was  the  somewhat 
startled  answer. 

"The  Countess  Tatjana,  Sire,  is  the  affi 
anced  bride  of  Prince  Adam  Czartoryisky, 
the  real  ruler  of  Imperial  Russia." 

"It  is  my  custom  always  to  defeat  my 
enemies,"  he  answered,  but  I  saw  that  his 

face  clouded. 

[36] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"Wait!"  I  exclaimed.  "Prince  Adam  and 
I  may  yet  defeat  you!" 

January  SO,  1807.  In  a  letter  received 
from  Prince  Adam  to-day  was  this  sentence: 
"Do  not  trust  the  French  Emperor.  He 
will  deceive  the  Poles.  He  will  make  them 
promises  he  has  no  idea  of  keeping,  and  in 
return  they  will  shed  their  blood  for  him 
by  thousands.  The  people  of  the  South, 
remember,  are  light  of  tongue." 

January  26,  1807.  Warsaw  is  still  wild 
over  the  Emperor.  He  possesses  a  strange 
magnetisnr/  It  is  as  if,  like  Prometheus,  he 
had  stolen  the  fire  of  the  gods.  He  is  mortal. 
It  cannot  last.  I  wonder  if,  like  Prome 
theus,  he  will  atone  for  his  temerity  by  being 
chained  to  a  rock  in  the  sea  that  the  vultures 
of  envy  may  eat  his  heart! 

January  30,  1807.  Again  last  night  I  was 
commanded  to  the  Emperor's  whist  table. 
He  had  forgotten  about  our  little  unpleasant- 

[37] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ness  and  was  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  me.  As 
I  entered,  he  was  talking  with  the  Prince 
General  about  Goethe,  whom  he  met  in 
Weimar.  The  Prince  General  moved  away 
to  make  place  for  the  players,  and  the  Duke 
of  Bassano  came  up. 

"I  must  quote  for  our  little  Countess, 
Duke,  that  saying  of  Goethe's  which  proves 
him  to  be  a  warrior  like  myself:  'Women 
and  fortresses  were  made  to  storm  and 
take.'"  V 

"When  Goethe  wrote  that,  Sire,"  I  an 
swered,  "two  exceptions  were  understood  — 
Russian  fortresses  and  Polish  women." 

Then  you  should  have  heard  the  laughter, 
which  he  took  good-naturedly,  replying: 
"I  like  spirit  in  a  woman.  Jjxindicates 
race/' 

After  the  game  was  over,  we  found  our 
selves  alone.  He  insisted  upon  driving  me 
home.  We  managed  it  without  the  others 
knowing;  otherwise  I  should  not  have  dared. 
WThen  we  were  in  the  sleigh  he  said,  as  if  he 
[38] 


eessses&seeeeeeeseessees&eeeeeseeeesess 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

thought  I  would  be  greatly  interested:  "I 
am  going  away  to-morrow  —  or  the  next 
day,  my  little  Countess." 

"Where,  Sire?" 

"To  White  Russia." 

I  started  as  if  some  terrible  thing  had 
been  communicated  to  me,  then  replied: 
"Do  not  seek  the  wind  in  the  open  field."1 

The  answer  did  not  please  him.  Some 
minutes  passed  before  he  spoke.  Then  the 
conversation  took  an  intimate  turn.  We 
drove  for  two  hours  at  a  furious  pace,  the 
horses'  feet  striking  diamonds  from  the 
snow.  When  we  reached  the  white  levels 
of  the  country,  silent  and  cold  in  the  silver 
night,  I  suddenly  realized  that  in  the  nature 
of  the  man  beside  me  were  the  same  great 
spaces  of  cold  and  silence  —  like  the  steppe 
—  which  nothing  could  reclaim.  For  a 
moment  fear  rose  in  my  heart. 

He  said  a  thousand  fond  and  foolish  things 
and  at  last  asked  me  if  I  loved  him. 

1  Slav  proverb. 
[39] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

essseseeeseessesessesseeeeseesssseseses 

I  replied: '"One  worships  the  gods,  Sire; 
one  does  not  love  them.'*\ 

When  we  reached  home  and  got  out 
of  the  sleigh,  he  stood  looking  at  me  in 
silence.  His  face  looked  paler  than  usual 
and  more  stern.  Suddenly  a  sort  of  rage 
convulsed  it.  He  drew  me  to  him,  held  me 
close,  and  kissed  my  hair  again  and  again. 
Then  he  leaped  into  the  sleigh  and  was  oft' 
without  a  word.  For  an  instant  the  stars 
in  the  winter  sky  and  the  sparkling  snow- 
stars  upon  the  earth  were  one.*^A  noise  as 
of  whirling  waters  dulled  my  ears.  In  love 
as  in  war  he  is  fierce  and  furious. 

February  10, 1807.  There  has  been  another 
battle.  We  do  not  know  much  about  it, 
except  that  it  must  have  been  in  the  neigh 
borhood  of  Eylau.  I  have  not  heard  from 
Prince  Adam.  I  wonder  if  he  was  there. 
I  fancied  him  on  one  side  and  Napoleon  on 
the  other,  with  the  black  thundering  cannon 
between. 

[40] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssss^sssssssssssssssssasssssss 

February  14, 1807.  Every  day  comes  news 
of  an  engagement  in  which  the  French  are 
successful.  To-day  a  messenger  came  to  me 
from  the  seat  of  war,  bringing  a  small  box. 
In  it  there  was  an  ornament  of  diamonds, 
with  a  slip  of  paper,  upon  which  was  written : 
"Russian  fortresses  may  be  taken!" 

February  19,  1807.  The  French  have  de 
feated  the  Russians  at  Ostrolenko. 

February  27, 1807.  Despite  the  war  and  the 
sad  news  that  reaches  us  daily,  the  carnival 
has  been  merry.  We  do  always  dance  in 
Warsaw.  There  is  no  denying  it. 

Last  night  being  Tuesday  before  Ash 
Wednesday,  we  celebrated  at  the  Prince 
General's  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 
We  wore  the  Polish  costume  in  compliance 
with  the  Prince  General's  request.  The 
ladies  were  resplendent  in  antique  flowered 
court  gowns  of  old  English  gilt-brocade; 
the  gentlemen  in  gorgeous  uniforms  with  all 
[41] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss^sssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
esseseesseseeeseseessesseseseeees&ssses 

their  decorations,  long  blue  and  white  plumes 
tossing  from  their  hats. 

We  began  by  dancing  the  Kracoviak,  each 
with  a  glass  of  wine  in  his  hand.  At  the 
turns  of  the  dance,  where  the  ladies  whirl, 
half  kneeling,  and  their  full  skirts  spread 
out  around  them  like  the  petals  of  a  flower, 
each  gentleman  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
above  his  partner's  head  with  a  glass  of 
glowing  wine.  Then  came  a  gavotte,  then 
a  Polonaise,  and  last  the  old-fashioned  dance 
where  we  sing,  "Oh,  we  love  one  another, 
yes,  we  love  one  another!  "  Thus  we  kept 
it  up  without  once  pausing.  At  midnight 
the  Prince  General's  chaplain  entered  and 
made  a  little  talk  upon  the  necessity  of  keep 
ing  the  fast  days.  We  followed  him  to  the 
chapel,  where  mass  was  said.  WTien  he 
came  to  the  place  in  the  service  where  he 
reads,  "Cum  jejunatis  nolite  fieri  sicut  Pha- 
riscei,"  the  men  leaped  to  their  feet,  flashed 
their  swords  from  jeweled  scabbards,  and 
set  their  plumed  hats  high  upon  their  heads 
[42] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

to  signify  that  they  would  fight  and  die  for 
the  faith.  It  was  a  splendid  and  imposing 
sight  —  those  solemn  courtly  figures  glitter 
ing  with  gems  and  gold,  under  the  fretful 
light  of  tapers  in  the  pale  winter  dawn.  I 
shall  not  soon  forget  it. 

April  20, 1807.  This  has  b^en  a  sad  Lent, 
a  veritable  season  of  gloom.  yl  do  not  know 
why.  I  have  heard  nothing  from  the 
Emperor. 

MlODUSCHWESKI, 

NEAR  WARSAW  ON  THE  VISTULA. 

June  1,1807.  Spring  is  here.  Even  spring 
is  sad.  Not  even  the  birds  are  merry  v  Our 
peasants  have  sung  their  saddest  songs  at 
the  planting.  I  have  heard  nothing  from 
the  Emperor. 

July  10,  1807.     The  Peace  of  Tilsit  has 

been  signed.    Prince  Adam  was  there.  France 

won  her  point,  made  alliance  with  Russia 

and    left   England    out.      Prince   Adam    is 

[431 


ONE  or  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

ssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssssssssssss 

broken-hearted.  Had  Alexander  been  less 
weak,  Poland  would  be  free.  An  attempt 
to  influence  the  mind  of  Alexander  is  like 
writing  one's  name  on  water.  There  is  a 
Russian  proverb  that  says,  however  :^  You 
must  not  expect  a  cuckoo  to  be  a  falcon.vr 

How  discouraging  has  this  long  diplomatic 
battle  been  to  Prince  Adam!  To  it  he  has 
sacrificed  his  youth.  Alexander  has  made 
use  of  his  talent  for  ten  years  by  luring  him 
on  with  the  hope  of  a  free  Poland.  He  says 
that  at  the  Peace  of  Tilsit  Napoleon  jested 
and  made  all  manner  of  fun  of  the  Poles. 
Since  he  is  no  longer  the  champion  of  the 
people,  he  has  degenerated  into  an  ambitious 
/knave,  to  whom  the  god  of  luck  gave  a  touch 
of  genius.  * 

"Napoleon,"  he  writes,  "is  not  a  man  of 
knightly  honor  with  the  blood  of  kings  in 
his  veins.  He  is  merely  an  adventurous 
usurper  eager  for  power.  He  is  the  first 
exponent  of  a  modern  commercial  world 
whose  dawn  is  just  at  hand  —  a  world 
[44] 


eseeeseeseessees&seeeeeeeseeseeeessseee 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

wherein  everything  will  be  negotiable,  every 
thing  will  have  its  price.  The  chivalric 
spirit  of  the  past  will  exist  no  longer;  noth 
ing  comparable  will  exist  again  after  the_ 
sword  of  Napoleon  has  passed  over  it." 

(Here  the  loss  of  a  number  of  leaves  from 
the  diary  causes  an  interruption  in  the 
story.  It  is  taken  up  again  with  the  year 

1812). 

ZAOZAIMA,  NEAR  WILNA  IN  LITHUANIA. 

June  15,  1812.  I  have  just  reached  Zao- 
zaima  to  oversee  for  the  summer  one  of  our 
Lithuanian  estates.  My  honored  mother  was 
unable  to  come. 

I  received  a  letter  from  Prince  Adam  to 
day.  He  is  no  longer  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs,  but  he  still  stays  on  at  the  Court  of 
Russia  because  of  his  influence  and  friend 
ship  with  Alexander.  He  still  hopes  to  effect 
the  freedom  of  Poland.  And  I  am  waiting. 
How  many  women  are  there  in  Poland  to-day 
whose  fate,  like  mine,  is  bound  up  with  the 

fate  of  the  nation! 

[45] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

eseseesessseesesesseeeeeseseeeeeesssess 

June  27,  1812.  A  messenger  just  came 
post-haste  from  Prince  Adam  with  this 
letter:  "By  the  time  this  reaches  you, 
Napoleon  will  have  crossed  the  Niemen 
with  the  great  army  of  France.  Diplomatic 
relations,  as  you  know,  have  been  severed 
between  France  and  Russia.  Again  I  have 
hope  of  the  old  alliance  of  Russia  and 
England. 

"Word  has  been  sent  to  Napoleon  that 
you  are  in  Zaozaima  in  Lithuania,  on  the 
direct  route  to  Russia.  His  love  for  you  is 
well  known.  He  will  send  you  word.  You 
can  help  us.  While  I  have  the  ear  of  Alex 
ander  and  you  the  heart  of  Napoleon,  some 
thing  may  yet  be  done  for  Poland.  This  is 
the  plan  —  not  to  let  Napoleon  see  the  army 
of  Russia  until  after  he  has  left  Wilna. 
When  he  does  see  it,  it  will  feign  fear  and 
retreat.  In  case  an  engagement  cannot  be 
avoided,  it  is  our  plan  to  give  him  the  victory 
and  then  retreat  again.  In  this  way  we  can 
bring  him  into  the  heart  of  the  country. 
[461 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

ssssssssssssssssassssssssssssssssssssss 

With  you  to  help,  we  will  lure  Napoleon, 
who  is  now  drunk  with  success,  to  a  ban 
quet  of  death  in  the  heart  of  White 
Russia." 

July  18,  1812.  A  messenger  came  from 
the  Emperor  to-day  and  an  escort  of  Lithu 
anian  soldiers.  I  am  commanded  to  go  to 
Witepsk  to  the  Convent  of  Our  Lady  of 
Good  Council  and  there  await  him.  I  did 
not  think  it  would  come  so  soon. 

July  20,  1812.  All  night  we  rode  through 
the  great  pine  woods  of  Lithuania.  The 
soldiers  sang,  alternately,  with  answering 
voices,  one  of  the  strangely  modulated 
dainos  of  the  country: 

"But  when  shall  we  go  from  the  Russian  land 
Back  again  to  the  Memel  strand? 
When  posts  and  stones  to  blossom  are  seen 
And  trees  in  depth  of  the  sea  grow  green."  l 

Poor  fellows!  There  is  little  probability 
that  they  will  come  back  to  the  Memel. 

1  Author's  translation. 
[47] 


385338388833333388833338838338323838838 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


July  25,  1812.  Witepsk  is  a  gloomy  city 
filled  with  cloisters.  There  are  twenty-four 
here.  They  look  as  black  and  as  forbidding 
as  the  black  pines  of  Lithuania. 

July  27,  1812.  I  found  the  strangest 
manuscript  in  the  convent  to-day!  It  is 
unsigned  and  ancient.  No  one  knows  of 
its  origin.  I  copy  a  part  which  mysteriously 
refers  to  the  present: 

"For  I  say  unto  you  that  the  balance 
must  always  be  kept.  Great  things  will 
be  weighed  and  estimated  by  great  things. 
But  in  the  end  that  shall  prevail  that  is 
fullest  of  joy.  Joy,  alone,  is  life.  Joy, 
alone,  can  create.  That  which  is  effort 
is  of  a  baser  fiber. 

"  Out  of  the  gloom  and  the  fog  of  the  North 
the  barbarians  came  and  destroyed  the  land 
of  joy,  the  cities  of  white  marble,  the  gladness 
of  the  pagan  world.  They  destroyed  the 
altars  whereon  the  incense  smoked  and  the 
sacrificial  doves  slumbered. 
F481 


eee&eeeeesseeeessesesssaeese&seeesseses 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
eseeeeseeeeesseeseeseeeeeseeees&eees&es 

"In  the  ages  of  ages,  when  the  time  shall 
be  ripe  and  the  world  shall  have  forgotten 
its  ancient  joy,  retribution  will  fall  upon  the 
North. 

"Out  of  the  South  will  come  a  Caesar  and 
a  god,  who,  like  them  of  old,  shall  know  not 
fear,  but  joy.  He  will  be  wise  with  the 
wisdom  of  the  sleeping  centuries.  He  will 
be  a  Bacchic  god,  in  whose  honor  for  incense 
cities  will  burn  and  the  smoking  blood  of 
slaughtered  nations  rise.  He  will  be  a 
Titan,  who  believes  that  the  only  crime  is 
littleness  and  impotence.  A  new  age  will 
begin  with  him." 

As  I  read  I  saw  the  white  cameo-like  face 
of  the  Great  Emperor  framed  in  the  gold 
of  a  burning  city. 

July  29, 1812.  The  Emperor  came  yester 
day.  He  brought  two  suits  such  as  are  worn 
by  the  Polish  cavalry,  one  for  me  and  one 
for  my  dame  de  compagnon.  I  had  to  cut  my 
hair.  Now  it  is  in  little  yellow  curls.  He 
[491 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


said  I  must  look  like  the  women  who  lead 
the  armies  of  the  Great  Catherine. 
We  are  on  the  road  to  Moscow. 

July  30>  1812.  What  is  so  inspiring  as  the 
call  of  trumpets!  They  are  the  instrument 
of  courage  and  high  deeds. 

July  31,  1812.  Pan  Brodzinski,  Pan 
Anton  Malzweski,  and  Prince  Michael  Rad- 
ziwill  are  with  the  army.  I  have  not  seen 
them. 

August  1,  1812.  This  army  is  a  wonderful 
sight.  In  it  are  people  of  all  nations.  The 
faith  of  the  soldiers  in  Napoleon  is  fanatical. 
In  just  this  way  do  the  Moslems  worship 
Allah.  They  think  he  is  superior  to  death. 
As  the  days  go  by  and  I  learn  to  estimate 
his  power,  I,  too,  can  say  "Allah  il  Allah." 

August  10,  1812.  No  mortal  was  ever 
adored  like  this.  Surely  there  must  be  good 
in  his  heart. 

[501 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

August  11, 181 2.  It  is  just  as  Prince  Adam 
wrote.  The  Russians  feign  fear  and  retreat. 
I  cannot  be  a  party  to  this  murder,  this 
luring  him  on  to  death.  I  must  find  some 
means  of  escape.  I  must  find  some  means 
of  saving  him  that  will  save  Poland  too. 

August  12,  1812.  Napoleon  disguised 
himself  as  a  chasseur  and  we  rode  to 
gether  all  day.  I  made  the  most  of  the 
opportunity. 

"Sire,  before  we  reach  the  boundaries  of 
Old  Poland,  I  pray  you,  take  this  precaution 
for  your  safety  —  make  Poland  free.  Then 
you  will  have  a  safe  ally  behind  you.  Then 
you  can  conquer  Russia." 

"Why  take  the  trouble!  Do  you  not  see 
how  they  fear  me,  how  they  retreat?" 

"That  is  only  a  ruse,  Sire;  they  are  the 
subtlest  of  races." 

"They  fear  me;  that  is  why." 

"No,  Sire,  I  know  them  better.     It  is  a 

ruse.    I  beg  you  to  listen  and  be  not  angry. 
[51] 


333333333S333S3338333333333S3333S333833 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
eessseesesesseeeeeeeeeeeseeeeseeeea&eee 


Only  a  man  whom  the  too  great  fcwors  of 
destiny    had    made    drunk    would /lead    an 


army  into  the  heart  of  Russia.  ,/It  means 

y 

death  —  to  them  —  to  you." 

"That  is  for  cowards.  Audaces  Fortuna 
juvat,  timidosque  repellit." 

"Sire,  make  Poland  free!" 

"If  I  did,  what  good  would  it  do  the 
Poles?  They  could  not  remain  free." 

"Why,  Sire!  Do  you  not  admire  my 
race?" 

"I  admire  them,  but  I  do  not  respect  them. 
Your  Polish  aristocracy  has  received  a 
foreign  education.  In  art,  in  letters,  they 
have  become  demi-savants,  which  has  un 
fitted  them  for  pracTTcaTaff airs .  No  people 
were  ever  more  fitted  to  please.  No  people 
ever  so  loved  the  joy  of  life  —  music  and 
the  tossing  of  plumes.  But  —  no  people 
ever  had  so  little  talent  for  the  conquest  of 
life.  They  were  not  made  for  care,  work, 
for  a  commonplace  thing  like  discipline. 
That  is  why  they  are  famous  for  their  cav- 
[521 


eeeeeseesseseeessseeeeeseseeeseeeeesees 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS^SSi 
airy.    They  are  good  only  for  itys: impetuous 
rush  of  an  inspired  moment." 

"Sire,  make  an  end  to  this  crucifixion  of 
my  country!  It  will  mean  safety  to  you  on 
your  return.  Make  Poland  free!" 

"It  would  be  useless.  You  Poles  have  no 
genius  for  affairs.  You  have  always  acted 
like  children." 

"Sire,  we  are  grown  now.  Sorrow  has 
made  us  wise." 

"It  is  useless,  I  tell  you.  You  do  not 
belong  to  the  present.  You  belong  to  other 
centuries.  You  are  the  last  defenders  of  the 
bulwark  of  the  Middle  Ages,  where  chivalry 
ruled.  Now  a  modern  world  is  here  that 
does  not  care  for  things  that  are  merely 
fine;  an  age  without  ideals  but  with  great 
practical  sense;  an  age  which  money  and 
success  alone  can  rule,  —  money  and  success, 
won  at  any  price,  for  not  even  honor  will 
stand  in  the  way.  Soon  the  old  chivalric 
days  when  men  loved  one  another  will  be 

merely  a  dream. 

[53] 


seseeseses&seeeeeeeeeseeeseeeeeeesgssee 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
geseseseesseeeeeeeeeeeesssessesseeggses. 

'  The  wars  of  the  time  to  come  will  not 
be  like  these  of  mine.  They  will  be  bloodless 
wars  fought  at  expense  of  men's  souls  and 
nerves,  and  they  will  be  crueler  and  more 
deeply  destructive  than  any  that  have  deso 
lated  Poland. 

"If  I  should  make  Poland  free,  it  could  not 
remain  free.  It  is  the  age  that  is  at  fault. 
You  have  not  grasped  modern  life.  Another 
age  has  come  over  Europe.  And  because  the 
Pole  cannot  accommodate  himself  to  it,  the 
nation  will  be  destroyed.  It  will  pass  under 
the  rule  of  others  who  have  in  abundance 
what  he  has  not.  Polonia  delenda  est" 

I  can  do  no  more.  He  must  go  on  to  ruin. 
I  dare  not  show  him  the  letter  of  Prince  Adam. 

August  16,  1818.  We  are  under  the  walls 
of  Smolensk,  the  city  which  the  Cossack 
Hetmans  wrested  from  the  Commonwealth. 
This  is  on  the  borders  of  Old  Poland. 

I  said  to  the  Emperor  in  one  last  attempt : 
"There  is  Russia,  Sire.  Do  you  remember 
[54] 


888388888388883388888883383838338833383 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

how  it  looks  upon  the  map?  A  wilderness 
bounded  by  a  river  of  blood  and  by  blue 
and  frozen  seas.  Those,  Sire,  are  God's 
awful  prohibition." 

He  looked  toward  it  thoughtfully  for  a 
time,  then  turned  and  walked  silently  away. 

August  18,  1812.  Yesterday  the  French 
took  Smolensk.  Again  I  saw  the  policy  of 
Russia.  It  was  garrisoned  by  thirty  thou 
sand  men.  They  gave  us  the  victory  that 
Napoleon  may  push  on  into  the  heart  of 
the  country.  There,  when  winter  comes, 
the  snow  and  the  frost  will  do  what  arms 
can  not.  There  he  will  contend  with  a  new 
army  —  the  army  of  the  elements.  I  saw 
the  battle.  It  was  terrible  beyond  descrip 
tion.  The  Emperor  commanded  in  person. 
He  was  here,  there,  everywhere,  all  at  once. 
He  was  the  incarnate  demon  of  joy.  Bullets 
dared  not  touch  him.  Screaming,  they  fled 
past.  It  was  frightful  in  that  he  really  seemed 
to  be  protected  by  a  superhuman  power. 
[55] 


sssssssssssssasssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

After  it  was  over,  he  rode  to  where  I  sat. 

"Was  a  woman  ever  entertained  as  I  have 
entertained  you?  I  do  not  amuse  you  with 
stupid  balls,  operas,  soirees,  but  with  the 
play  of  the  best  armies  of  Europe." 

His  joy  filled  me  with  terror. 

August  20,  1812.  The  soldiers  are  wild 
with  hope.  They  see  themselves  master  of 
the  East.  I  alone  know  what  awaits  them. 
They  are  uplifted  by  such  a  burning  desire 
of  the  future  that  the  present  is  annihilated. 

Along  the  way  are  the  dead  and  dying. 
No  one  seems  to  care. 

August  22,  1812.  I  am  becoming  infected 
with  the  general  joy.  Yet  I  know  that  the 
Russians  have  prepared  their  revenge. 

August  28,  1812.  The  Russians  are  still 
retreating.  Yesterday  and  the  day  before 
there  were  slight  engagements  in  which  the 
French  were  successful. 

The  Russians  retired  to  Borodino.  Now 
[56] 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssss^sssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

the  invincible  Kutusow  is  in  command.  The 
Emperor  is  delighted.  He  is  eager  to  meet 
him. 

September  8, 1812.  Yesterday  they  fougnt 
by  Borodino.  Kutusow  retired  to  Moscow. 

September  1%,  1812.    We  can  see  Moscow ! 

Imagine  a  yellow,  barren  plain,  over  it 
gold-dust  haze,  brightening  and  darkening 
as  the  wind  sways  it,  through  which  rise  a 
multitude  of  green  and  red  and  blue  and 
silver  domes,  surmounted  by  gold,  lace- 
work  crosses.  It  floats  in  the  air.  It  is  the 
creation  of  a  magician.  At  the  same  time 
it  is  very  real,  and  touched  with  mystery 
and  age  —  the  immemorial  age  of  the  East. 

September  15,  1812.  We  are  in  Moscow. 
The  city  is  deserted.  Kutusow  took  his 
troops  and  went  away.  It  was  not  fear 
that  made  him.  Something  terrible  is 
going  to  happen.  Why  do  not  the  French 
suspect? 

[57] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
ssssssssssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssss 

It  is  unimaginable  —  the  effect  of  this 
silent,  wonderful  city.  Who  would  dream 
of  a  city  here  —  on  the  barren  plain  that 
stretches  eastward  to  Asia!  And  such  a 
city!  Italian  palaces  by  the  side  of  Tartar 
huts!  Bazaars  where  the  wonders  of  the 
Orient  are  displayed! 

The  soldiers  are  pillaging  right  and  left. 
Entire  squadrons  go  about  decked  in  gold 
and  embroidered  gauzes  fit  for  the  harems 
of  Stamboul. 

It  is  like  a  festival  in  honor  of  a  pagan  god. 
This  illusion  is  heightened  by  the  fires  which 
are  burning  everywhere,  like  incense. 

Never  before  did  the  bitter  North  see  any 
thing  like  this.  Like  this  life  must  have 
been  in  the  old  days  —  in  Alexandria  and 
in  Mitylene. 

September  17,   1812.     It   has   come!     It 

could  not  be  put  off  longer.    Last  night  the 

Emperor  summoned  me  to  him.    He  was  in 

the  Uspenski  Sobore,  the  cathedral  where 

[581 


ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 


the  Russian  emperors  are  crowned.  Here  he 
has  set  up  his  abode.  The  splendor  of  the 
room  I  entered  was  overpowering.  It  was 
magnificent,  imposing,  glittering  with  mar 
bles,  with  paintings,  and  with  decorations, 
made  out  of  barbaric  gold.  It  was  lighted 
by  a  thousand  candles,  each  as  tall  as  the 
body  of  a  man.  Yet  the  corners  and  the 
roof  were  black  and  impenetrable. 

No  sooner  had  I  entered  than  he  drew  me 
to  him  with  that  silent  fury  I  remembered. 
Then  he  hastened  to  make  fast  the  door. 

"Now  I  can  unfold  my  plan  —  I,  who  am 
master  of  the  world.  For  five  years  I  have 
loved  you  and  asked  nothing  in  return.  Now 
is  my  time.  You  are  to  be  my  Empress  — 
Empress  of  the  East.  This  shall  be  your 
capital,  Russia  and  the  Orient  your  crown 
lands.  You  shall  be  what  Yek-Katarina 
dreamed  always  of  being  —  Empress  of  the 
East." 

"  But  —  Sire  —  the  church  !  Could  it  bless 
a  union  like  ours?" 

[59] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"The  church?  Why,  I  shall  be  the 
church!" 

I  saw  that  he  was  drunk  with  the  deadliest 
wine  that  can  be  given  to  mortals  —  suc 
cess,  and  the  too  great  favors  of  destiny. 

"Sire,  I  have  considered.  I  will  follow 
your  will  —  on  one  condition." 

Here  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 
"The  city  is  on  fire!  Lose  no  time.  Save 
yourself!" 

"And  what  is  that?"  paying  not  the 
slightest  heed  to  the  interruption. 

"Sire,  Russia's  supply  of  powder  is  under 
the  Kremlin.  In  an  instant  we  may  all  be 
destroyed.  Sire!  Sire!" 

"And  what  is  that?" 

The  pounding  on  the  door  became  deafen 
ing.  The  great  windows  were  so  lighted  by 
the  flames  outside  that  they  dimmed  the 
candles.  The  floor,  made  of  bricks  of  steel, 
was  as  red  with  the  reflection  as  a  sea  of 
blood. 

"The  freedom  of  Poland,  Sire," 
[601 


ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssa 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"I  grant  it." 

"Why  should  you  not?  Poland  was  cut 
up  to  make  presents  for  the  lovers  of  Cath 
erine.  Why  should  it  not  be  united  for  the 
one  love  of  Napoleon?'* 

"Sire!  Sire!  Open  the  door.  Do  not  risk 
your  life  —  the  fate  of  France.  Open ! 
Open!" 

"Write  then  its  freedom  here,"  snatching 
a  piece  of  paper  and  spreading  it  before  him. 

I  felt  no  fear.  I  was  conscious  only  of 
a  great  exaltation,  —  the  sensation  he  had 
first  taught  me  to  know.  Death  was  noth 
ing  in  comparison  with  the  goal  I  sought. 

"Write,  Sire,  write!" 

We  were  then  in  such  an  intensity  of  many- 
colored'  light  that  the  farthest  top  of  the 
great  dome  shone  red  like  a  baker's  oven. 
The  knocking  and  the  voices  increased, 
grew  deafening. 

"An  instant,  just  another  instant!"  I 
prayed,  "  until  that  paper  is  in  my  hands ! " 

"Dictate;   it  shall  be  as  you  wish." 
[611 


sss&ses&eeseeess&sees&seeesese&e&eseess 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
e&sssesesseseeeeeseses&eesssesseseseses 

"Write,  then:  'que  la  Republique  de  Po- 
logne  soil  maintenue  dans  son  etat  de  libre 
election  et  qu'il  ne  soil  permis  a  personne  de 
rendre  le  dit  royaume  hereditaire  dans  sa 
famille  ou  de  s'y  rendre  absolu." 

Just  as  he  reached  the  place  of  signature, 
the  door  fell  and  the  Prince  of  Naples,  fol 
lowed  by  frightened  soldiers,  rushed  in. 

"What  are  you  writing?"  He  snatched 
the  paper  from  the  table.  By  this  time  the 
room  was  half  filled  with  soldiers. 

The  freedom  of  Poland ! 

"Sire,  this  woman  is  the  tool  of  Russia. 
See,  here  is  the  letter  written  to  her  by 
Prince  Adam  Czartoryisky.  Listen,  Sire, 
listen ! 

'  With  you  to  help,  we  will  lure  Napo 
leon,  who  is  now  drunk  with  success,  to  a 
banquet  of  death  in  the  heart  of  White 
Russia." 

J  The  look  on  the  face  of  the  Great  Emperor 

is  one  of  the  things  which  the  merciful  God 

will  never  permit  me  to  forget.     Upon  it 

[621 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ONE  OF  NAPOLEON'S  LOVES 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

dawned  in  quick  succession  the  intelligence 
of  all  those  baffling  defeats,  followed  by  a 
mingled  look  of  anger,  surprise,  and  that 
which  cut  me  deepest  —  grief.  V^ 

"Sire,"  continued  the  Prince  of  Naples, 
"outside  waits  her  escort  sent  by  His  Im 
perial  Majesty,  Alexander,  to  rescue  her  from 
burning  Moscow." 

"Take  her  to  her  escort,"  was  the  stern 
reply. 

Not  one  word,  not  one  glance,  did  he  give 
to  me. 

As  I  drove  away  toward  Warsaw,  I  saw 
him  for  one  last  instant  standing  on  the 
pictured  Kremlin  wall,  fearless  and  calm,  a 
pagan  god  for  whom  a  city  fell  in  ruin. 
Behind  and  beside,  the  conflagration  rolled 
its  waves  of  flame. 

I  had  been  faithful  to  my  country,  to  my 

duty,  yet  I  felt  the  greatest  contempt  for 

y/myself. 

You  see,  I  was  beneath  his  anger. 


[63 


THE   PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

"1  7K  7E  were  lingering  over  one  of  our  honey - 
^  moon  breakfasts  in  Naples,  my  hus 
band  dividing  his  attention  between  //  Cor- 
riere  di  Napoli  and  his  coffee,  and  I  planning 
for  my  favorite  pastime,  swimming,  in  that 
sea  which  looks  like  a  liquid  sapphire. 

! '  No  clue  to  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  the  Contessa  Fabriani,'  "  he  read.  *  After 
a  month's  search,  the  police  are  baffled.' ' 

"That  does  not  sound  particularly  re 
markable  to  you,  I  suppose.  Women  —  and 
men,  too,  for  that  matter  —  have  disap 
peared  from  other  cities.  But  this  adds 
another  chapter  to  a  mysterious  story  of 
crime. 

"  For  twenty -five  years  not  only  native 

Italian  women,  but  visiting  women  of  other 

nations  have  disappeared  from  Naples,  and 

nothing  has  afterward  been  heard  of  them. 

[64] 


S3SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS2 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

The  peculiar  part  about  it  is  that  they  have 
all  been  young  and  beautiful,  and  women  of 
the  upper  class." 

I  paid  little  heed  to  his  words.  I  was 
thinking  of  other  things.  Besides,  Luigi  was 
a  Neapolitan  and  interested  in  all  the  hap 
penings  of  his  native  city.  On  my  first  visit 
to  Naples  I  did  not  have  time  to  interest 
myself  in  a  sensational  story  such  as  I  could 
read  any  morning  in  the  London  papers. 

'  You  have  not  forgotten  that  to-night  is 
the  ball?"  said  my  husband,  consulting  his 
watch  and  jumping  up.  "I  want  you  to 
look  particularly  lovely.  All  my  friends  — 
and  your  old  rivals  —  will  be  there.  Busi 
ness  takes  me  from  the  city  for  the  day,  and 
in  case  I  should  not  return  in  time  to  accom 
pany  you,  I  have  arranged  for  Cousin  Lucia 
to  meet  you  at  ten  at  the  door  of  the  Cin- 
ascalchi  Palace.  I  shall  come  later  —  in  time 
for  part  of  the  dancing.  Tell  Pietro  to  get  you 
there  at  exactly  ten,"  he  called,  after  he  had 
kissed  me  good-by. 

[65] 


888888888888888888883883888388888888883 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

When  I  took  a  last  look  at  myself  in  the 
glass  that  night,  I  felt  that  I  had  obeyed  my 
husband's  instructions.  I  was  looking  par 
ticularly  lovely.  I  had  dressed  with  the  pur 
pose  of  appearing  as  unlike  Italian  women 
as  possible. 

My  slim  six  feet  of  stature  was  arrayed  in 
a  plain  white  satin  princess,  from  which  the 
shoulders  rose  scarcely  less  white  and  satiny. 
My  hair  was  the  color  of  the  upland  furze, 
and  my  cheeks  glowed  like  the  roses  of  an 
English  garden. 

"Pietro!"  I  called,  after  we  had  driven 
what  seemed  to  me  a  very  long  time.  "Are 
you  sure  that  you  are  going  in  the  right  direc 
tion?  I  did  not  suppose  that  it  was  outside 
the  city." 

He  reassured  me  and  drove  on. 

We  entered  the  courtyard  of  a  country 
estate.  As  I  stepped  from  the  carriage,  I 
saw  in  the  distance  the  grouped  lights  of 
Naples.  Pietro  whipped  the  horses  and 
drove  off  before  I  had  time  to  speak. 
[66] 


esseeseessessseseeseseeeseseeeseeegseeg 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

There  were  no  other  carriages  in  the  yard. 
Could  I  have  mistaken  the  time?  Lucia 
was  not  there  to  meet  me,  either.  "  She 
is  probably  within,"  I  reflected,  "  since  the 
palace  is  bright  with  light." 

Doors  swung  back  softly  and  as  if  by  magic- 
I  entered.  The  blaze  of  light  that  rushed  out 
all  but  blinded  me.  Words  cannot  express 
the  horror  of  it  nor  the  silence  that  accom 
panied  it.  There  were  no  servants  moving 
about.  No  one  was  in  sight.  I  was  alone. 

Imagine  a  sweep  of  majestic  rooms  whose 
floors  were  polished  to  the  surface  consistency 
of  stone;  straight  white  walls  of  mirrored 
marble,  and,  blazing  from  walls  and  ceiling, 
prisms  of  cut  crystal.  Wherever  you  looked 
the  glitter  of  light  flashed  back  at  you,  con 
fusing  your  eyes  and  dazing  your  brain.  I 
did  not  suppose  that  light  could  hold  such 
terror. 

"There  is  surely  some  mistake,"  I  whis 
pered.  "This  is  no  place  for  dancing  or 
merriment.  It  is  more  like  a  white  and 
[671 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS2 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

shining  sepulchre.  I  would  rather  trust 
myself  to  the  night  outside,"  and  I  turned 
toward  the  door  with  the  purpose  of  leaving. 
But  the  space  behind,  where  I  knew  that  I 
had  entered,  presented  a  smooth  and  evenly 
paneled  surface.  There  was  no  door.  Nor 
was  there  place  for  lock  or  knob.  As  I  stood 
confused  and  hesitating,  I  learned  to  the  full 
the  demoniac  power  of  light.  The  slightest 
motion  of  my  body,  my  head,  my  breathing, 
even,  sent  from  polished  corners  and  cornice 
quivering  arrows  into  my  eyes.  The  mirrors 
and  the  shining  marble  reflected  floor  and 
ceiling  until  it  was  impossible  to  tell  where 
one  left  off  and  the  other  began.  It  seemed, 
after  a  time,  that  I  was  floating  head  down 
ward  in  a  sea  of  light. 

Then  something  righted  me  sharply.  It 
was  not  sound  nor  was  it  thought.  It  ap 
pealed  to  subtler  senses.  It  was  as  if  the 
material  body  was  endowed  with  a  thinking 
machine  and  each  pore  contained  a  brain. 
It  aroused  some  consciousness  which  the 
[68] 


segsesessese&eseeeeeeeeeessseeseesssees 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
sss&eseseeseeeseesesssesegeesessesesees 

hypnotism  of  light  had  dulled.  I  knew  then 
that  I  was  standing,  slim  and  white  and 
frozen  with  terror,  in  the  focus  of  the  light. 

I  felt  the  cold  diamonds  shift  their  posi 
tion  upon  my  throat  and  breast  and  tremble 
as  I  breathed  irregularly.  I  heard  the  sibi 
lant  slipping  of  the  stiff  satin  as  it  fell  into 
a  changed  position. 

A  powerful  and  dominant  brain  had 
touched  my  own.  For  one  unconscious 
moment  it  had  ruled  it  and  set  upon  it  the 
seal  of  its  thought. 

Such  a  passion  of  fear  assailed  me  that  it 
seemed  as  if  I  must  choke.  My  fascinated 
eyes  turned  toward  the  end  of  the  farthest 
room.  From  there  the  message  came. 
There,  I  knew,  was  something  compelling, 
something  electric.  Exactly  in  the  center 
of  that  far  room,  and  very  erect,  stood  a 
man.  He  was  coming  toward  me,  too, 
slowly  —  very  slowly.  Yet  I  heard  not  the 
slightest  sound.  Evidently  he  was  shod 
with  rubber.  He  moved  as  I  have  seen  a 
[69] 


THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


malevolent  spider  move  toward  a  prisoned 
fly,  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  motion  because 
he  knows  that  there  is  no  escape  for  his 
victim.  Just  as  gracefully  and  easily  did  he 
move  toward  me.  And  as  he  came,  I  knew 
that  he  read  my  soul,  measured  my  strength 
and  my  power  of  resistance,  and  at  the  same 
time  admired  the  white  erectness  of  my  body. 

Fear,  as  with  a  bitter  acid,  etched  his 
picture  on  my  brain.  He  was  very  tall  — 
taller  than  I  by  a  good  inch  —  and  fault 
lessly  attired;  a  patrician,  but  a  degenerate 
patrician,  the  body  alone  having  preserved 
its  ancient  dignity. 

Ribboned  decorations  brightened  his  coat, 
and  I  saw  a  garter  on  his  leg. 

He  was  thinner  than  any  one  I  ever  saw 
and  correspondingly  supple.  His  move 
ments  had  the  fascination  of  a  serpent. 
Thus  might  a  serpent  move,  if  its  coiled 
length  were  poised  erect. 

His  head  would  have  been  beautiful,  had 
not  the  features  been  so  delicately  chiseled 
[70] 


eseeeeeeeeseeeeeee&eeeeeesese&eeeseeees 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
esessegsseeseeeeesseeseseseeeeeeesseses 

that  strength  and  nobility  had  been  refined 
away,  and  in  their  place  had  come  effemi 
nacy  and  a  certain  cold  and  delicate  cruelty. 

He  was  an  old  man,  too,  and  his  heavy 
hair  was  white.  His  brows,  however,  were 
black  and  youthful,  and  from  beneath  looked 
out  blue  eyes.  The  eyes  were  the  color  of 
light  when  it  shines  through  thick  ice.  They 
were  the  color  of  the  sharp  edge  of  fine 
steel  when  it  is  bared  too  quickly  to  the  sun. 
In  the  same  hard  way  the  light  ran  across 
them. 

But  the  strangest  part  was  that  there 
seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  their  depth.  How 
ever  far  you  looked  within,  you  could  not 
find  a  person.  You  could  not  surprise  a  con 
sciousness.  There  was  no  soul  there.  In 
its  stead  there  was  merely  a  keen  and  de 
structive  intelligence. 

I  realized  that  the  man  coming  toward  me 
did  not  live  by  means  of  the  physical  acts 

of  life.    He  had  learnedr  to  live  by  his  brain. 

f 
He  was  a  cerebral!  ^^ 

[71] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

I  sensed  his  dominant  personality  and 
struggled  against  it.  I  sensed,  too,  the  pres 
ence  of  a  numbing  mental  fluid  that  crippled 
my  will  and  dulled  me  as  does  that  sweet- 
smelling  death  which  surgeons  call  the 
ansesthetic. 

He  had  stripped  himself  of  human  attri 
butes.  He  knew  nothing  of  fear,  pity,  love. 

"I  have  the  honor  of  meeting,  I  believe, 
the  bride  of  the  Leopardi."  He  bowed  and 
spoke  in  an  even,  unemotional  voice. 

I  bowed  in  return.  "How  is  it  possible 
for  you  to  know  that?  I  do  not  remember 
having  met  you." 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  have  met  me.  No 
beautiful  woman  comes  to  Naples  whom 
I  do  not  know.  I,"  bowing  again,  "am 
Count  Ponteleone,  painter  of  dead  women. 
You  have  probably  heard  of  me." 

"Who  has  not!"  I  exclaimed,  somewhat 
reassured  and  wondering  that  this  could  be 
the  man  whose  name  was  resounding  through 

two  continents. 

[72] 


THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

"This  intrusion  —  which  I  beg  you  to 
pardon  —  is  due  to  the  coachman's  mistake. 
I  am  expected  at  the  Cinascalchi  ball.  My 
husband  and  cousin  await  me  there.  If  you 
will  send  me  on  in  your  carriage,  I  shall  be 
grateful." 

"  Oh,  no,  your  coachman  made  no  mistake," 
calmly  ignoring  my  request.  "  I  brought  him 
here  and  you,  too,  as  I  have  brought  other 
women  —  by  this,"  tapping  his  forehead. 

"You  are  graciously  jesting  to  excuse  my 
rudeness,"  I  managed  to  stammer,  sum 
moning  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"  Well,  we  may  as  well  call  it  a  jest  if  you 
wish.  It  is  a  jest  which  ought  to  flatter.  I 
entertain  only  beautiful  women  here." 

The  glance  that  accompanied  this  envel 
oped  me  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  a  glance 
of  admiration,  and  yet  in  it  there  was  none  of 
the  desire  of  would-be  love.  It  was  devoid 
of  warmth  and  emotion.  Nothing  could  be 
more  impersonal.  No  mark  'of  material 
beauty  had  escaped  it.  It  was  the  trained 
[73] 


sssssesesessgsesesessssegseseegsgs&eses 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

glance  of  a  connoisseur  which  measures 
accurately.  I  might  have  been  a  picture 
or  a  piece  of  furniture. 

I  felt  that  he  knew  my  racial  standing,  my 
rank  as  a  human  animal,  by  the  delicate 
roundness  of  my  bones  and  the  fine  fiber  of 
my  flesh.  I  had  been  as  glass  to  his  intelli 
gent  gaze.  Somehow,  then,  I  felt  that  the 
body  of  me  belonged  to  him  because  of  this 
masterly  penetration  which  substance  could 
not  resist. 

"Since  you  are  to  be  my  guest,  we  might 
seek  a  more  comfortable  place  to  converse." 

He  led  the  way  to  the  center  of  the  great 
rooms  where,  touching  an  invisible  spring, 
doors  flew  back,  disclosing  a  drawing-room 
draped  in  red.  As  he  bowed  me  to  a  seat,  he 
remarked:  "Here  you  look  like  a  pearl 
dropped  in  a  cup  of  blood." 

I,  too,  thought  that  I  had  never  seen  so 
wicked  a  red  nor  one  so  suggestive  of  luxu 
rious  crime.     The  comparison  jarred  upon 
me  and  prickled  me  with  fear. 
[74] 


esseeseesesseeeseseeseseeeeeeeeeeeesees 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

sesseeeeessseeeseeseeseeeeeeessesessees 

As  he  sank  back  in  an  easy-chair  op 
posite,  I  saw  how  the  red  walls  touched 
with  color  the  whiteness  of  his  hair  and 
sent  occasional  ruddy  gleams  into  the  depth 
of  his  eyes. 

"You  are  an  Englishwoman,  too,"  he  ob 
served,  with  evident  relish.  "I  knew  it. 
Only  the  mists  and  rains  of  England  can 
make  color  like  yours.  Did  you  notice  how 
well  we  looked  together  as  we  walked  along 
between  the  mirrors?  Are  we  not  as  if  made 
.  for  each  other  —  tall  and  regal  —  both  of 
us?  What  a  picture  we  would  make!" 

It  occurred  to  me  then,  with  unpleasant 
appropriateness,  that  he  was  the  painter  of 
dead  women. 

"It  is  an  English  woman,  too,  that  I  lack 
for  my  collection,"  he  mused  meditatively. 

"Collection!  Have  you  a  collection  of 
women?  That  is  certainly  unique.  I  have 
heard  of  collections  of  bugs,  birds,  —  but 
women,  never.  Perhaps  you  would  like  me 
to  join  it!" 

[75] 


THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


"Indeed  I  should!  I  never  saw  a  woman 
I  admired  so  tremendously." 

I  drew  back  in  fear,  silenced  by  the  ardor 
of  his  words. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid.  I  am  not  like 
other  men.  I  do  not  love  as  they  love.  I 
love  only  with  my  brain.  While  you  have 
been  sitting  here,  I  have  caressed  you  a 
thousand  times,  and  you  have  not  even  sus 
pected  it.  I  do  not  want  the  bestial  common 
pleasures  which  my  coachman  can  have,  or 
my  scullion  can  buy  with  a  lira.  Why 
should  not  I  be  as  much  superior  to  them 
in  my  loves  as  in  my  life?  If  I  am  not,  then 
I  am  not  their  superior  in  any  way.  My 
pleasures  are  those  of  another  plane  of  life, 
of  a  brain  touched  to  a  keener  fire,  of  nerves 
that  have  reached  the  highest  point  of 
pleasurable  vibration.  Besides,  when  I  love, 
I  love  only  dead  women.  Life  reaches  its 
perfection  only  when  death  comes.  Life  is 
never  real  until  iken"  he  added. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  kill  me  for 
[76] 


THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
eesessesseeee&sseeeeeeees&eeeseseeeeees 

your  amusement  to-night,"  I  replied,  still 
trying  to  keep  up  the  jest.  "I  have  always 
flattered  myself,  however,  that  I  was  better 
alive." 

No  sooner  were  the  words  out  than  I  re 
gretted  them.  His  face  grew  thin  and 
strained  like  a  bird-dog's  on  the  scent.  His 
lips  became  expressive  of  a  terrible  desire, 
and  his  frail  hands  trembled  with  antici 
pation. 

As  I  looked,  his  pupils  disappeared,  and 
his  eyes  became  two  pools  of  blue  and  blaz 
ing  light.  Unwittingly  I  had  hit  upon  his 
object.  I  had  surprised  his  purpose  in  a 
jest. 

Who  could  have  dreamed  of  this!  At  the 
worst,  I  thought,  I  might  be  detained  for 
two  or  three  days,  forced  to  serve  him  for  a 
model,  and  cause  worry  to  my  husband  and 
gossiping  comment. 

But  whose  imagination  could  have  reached 
this!  Strangely  enough,  the  decree  of  death 
that  I  read  in  his  face  dissipated  my  fear. 
[77] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
eeeeeessesessesesssessssessssesseeseeee 

I  became  calm  and  collected.  In  an  instant 
I  was  mistress  of  myself  and  ready  to  fight 
for  life.  The  blood  stopped  pounding  in 
my  brain.  I  could  think  with  normal 
clearness. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  I  reflected,  "this 
man  is  not  mad.  If  he  were,  I  might  be 
able  to  play  upon  some  delusion  for  free 
dom.  He  has  passed  the  point  where  mad 
ness  begins.  He  has  gone  just  so  much  too 
far  the  other  way." 

"Then  you  really  think  that  you  could 
love  me  if  I  were  dead,"  I  laughed,  leaning 
toward  him  gayly.  "Is  it  not  rather  a 
strange  requisite  for  winning  a  woman's 
love?  What  would  my  reward  be?  Are 
you  sure  you  could  not  endure  me  any  other 
way?" 

"  Do  not  jest  about  sacred  things !    Death,"        / 
'he  answered  slowly  and  reprovingly,  "is  the     / 
/thing  most  to  be  desired  by  beautiful  women.  J 
V  It  saves  them  from  something  worse  —  old 
age.    An  ugly  woman  can  afford  to  live;    a 
[78] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

sssesseeseessses&esssseseeesesseesesses 

beautiful  woman  can  not.  The  real  object 
of  life  is  to  ripen  the  body  to  its  limit  of 
physical  perfection,  and  then,  just  as  you 
/would  a  perfect  fruit,  pluck  and  preserve  it. 
y  Death  sets  the  definite  seal  upon  its  perfec-  / 
tion,  that  is,  if  death  can  be  controlled  tov 
prevent  decay.  And  that  is  what  I  can  do,'* 
he  added  proudly,  getting  up  in  his  abstrac 
tion  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 
"And  what  difference  does  it  make,  what 
day  it  comes?  All  days  march  toward 
death." 

I  admired  unreservedly  the  elegant,  in- 
tellectualized  figure,  now  that  I  had  thrown 
fear  to  the  winds. 

"Come,"  he  pleaded,  "let  me  kill  you! 
It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  ask  you.  It 
is  because  I  think  that  your  physical  self  is 
worth  being  preserved.  Your  future  will  be 
assured.  You  will  never  be  less  happy  than 
now,  less  lovely,  less  triumphant.  You 
will  always  be  an  object  of  admiration." 

"What   a   magician   you   are   to   picture 
[79] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

death  attractively!  But  tell  me  more  about 
it  first." 

Joy  leaped  up  and  sang  in  my  heart  at  the 
prospect  of  the  struggle.  I  felt  as  the  race 
horse  feels  when,  knowing  the  strength  and 
the  suppleness  of  his  limbs,  he  sees  the  long 
white  track  unfold  before  him. 

"In  ancient  days  my  ancestors,"  he  be 
gan,  "were  Roman  Governors  in  Spain. 
At  the  court  of  one  of  them,  Vitellius  Pon- 
teleone,  lived  a  famous  Jewish  physician  (in 
old  Spanish  days  the  Jews  were  the  first 
of  scientists),  by  name  Ibn  Ezra.  He  made 
a  poison  (poison  is  not  the  right  word,  I 
regret  greatly  its  vulgar  suggestiveness)  from 
a  mineral  which  has  now  vanished  from  the 
face  of  the  earth.  This  poison  causes  a  de 
licious,  pleasureful  death,  and  at  the  same 
time  arrests  physical  decay.  Now,  if  you 
will  just  let  me  inject  one  drop  of  it  into 
that  white  arm  of  yours,  you  will  be  immor 
tal  —  superior  to  time  and  change,  inde 
structibly  young.  You  do  not  seem  to  realize 
[80] 


888888888388888888888888888888888888888 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

the  greatness  of  the  offer.  For  this  honor  I 
have  selected  you  from  all  the  women  in 
Naples." 

"It  is  an  honor,  of  course;  but,  like  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  it  seems  to  me  impor 
tant  and  to  require  consideration." 

"Oh,  no,  it  is  not  important.  We  have  to 
prepare  for  life,  but  for  death  we  are  always 
ready.  Besides,  I  am  offering  you  a  chance 
to  choose  your  own  death.  How  many  can 
do  that!" 

"  Do  not  think  that  I  am  ungrateful,  good 
Count,  but  —  " 

"One  little  drop  of  the  liquid  will  run 
through  your  veins  like  flame,  cutting  off 
thought  and  all  centers  of  painful  sensation. 
Only  a  dim  sweet  memory  of  pleasant  things 
will  remain.  Gradually,  then,  cells  and  arte 
ries  and  flesh  will  harden.  In  time  your  body 
will  attain  the  hardness  of  a  diamond  and 
the  whiteness  of  fine  marble.  But  it  is 
months,  years,  before  the  brain  dies.  I  am 
not  really  sure  that  it  ever  dies.  In  it,  like 
[81] 


esssges&eesessess&eesesssssseee&sss&ses 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


the  iridescent  reflections  upon  a  soap  bub 
ble,  live  the  shadows  of  past  pleasures. 
There  is  no  other  immortality  that  can 
equal  this  which  I  offer.  Every  day  that 
you  live  now  lessens  your  beauty.  In  a  way 
every  day  is  a  vulgar  death.  It  coarsens  and 
over-colors  your  skin,  dulls  the  gold  of  your 
hair,  makes  this  bodily  line,  or  this,  a  bit 
too  full.  That  is  why  I  brought  you  here 
to-night,  at  the  height  of  your  beauty,  just 
as  love  and  life  have  crowned  you." 

"It  must  be  a  remarkable  liquid.  Let  me 
see  it.  Is  it  with  you?" 

"No,  indeed!  It  is  kept  in  a  vault  which 
it  takes  an  hour  to  open.  It  is  guarded  as 
are  the  crown  jewels  of  Italy,"  he  responded 
proudly. 

"There  is  no  immediate  danger,"  I 
thought.  "There  is  time.  Now  the  road 
lies  long  before  me." 

"I  suppose  there  is  an  antidote  for  —  this 
liquid.     I  will  not  call  it  poison,  since  you 
dislike  the  word  so  greatly." 
[82] 


eeeeeeeseeesseeeeeeeesssgesseessesesess 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

eseseesesssese&sessssgseeesesesegessess 

"None  that  is  known  now.  You  see  it 
destroys  instantly  what  only  patient  nature 
can  rebuild." 

"I  am  greatly  interested  in  it.  Show  me 
the  other  women  upon  whom  you  have 
tried  it.  I  am  eager  to  see  its  effect." 

"I  knew  you  would  be.    Come  this  way." 

We  ascended  a  staircase,  where  again  I 
felt  the  sting  of  light.  Upon  a  landing,  half 
way  up,  he  paused  and  pointed  to  our  re 
flected  figures. 

"Are  we  not  as  if  made  for  each  other  — 
you  and  I?  When  I  sleep  the  white  liquid 
sleep,  I  shall  arrange  that  it  be  beside  you." 

My  death  evidently  was  firmly  deter 
mined  upon. 

At  the  top  he  unlocked  a  door,  and  we 
entered  a  room  where  some  fifty  women 
were  dancing  a  minuet.  Above  them  great 
crystal  chandeliers  swung,  giving  to  their 
jewels  and  their  shimmering  silks  and  satins 
reflected  life.  Each  one  was  in  an  attitude  of 
arrested  motion.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been 
[83] 


SS8S8383S3SS3S3383S8S3SS33338833388SS33 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
SSSSSS^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

frozen  in  the  maddest  moment  of  a  dance. 
But  what  a  horrible  sight  —  this  dance  of 
dead  women,  this  mimic  merriment  of  death ! 

"You  know  my  picture  of  this  scene,  do 
you  not?"  said  he,  turning  on  more  light. 
"They  were  perfect  models,  I  can  assure 
you.  I  can  paint  them  for  hours  in  any  light. 

"When  I  die  I  shall  bequeath  to  Naples 
this  art  gallery.  Will  it  not  be  a  gift  to  be 
proud  of?  Nothing  can  surpass  it  in  unique 
ness.  Then  the  bodies  of  these  women  will 
have  attained  the  hardness  and  the  white 
ness  of  fine  marble.  They  can  in  no  way  be 
distinguished  from  it  except  by  their  hair. 

"  Of  course  now,  if  the  outside  world  knew 
of  this,  I  should  be  punished  as  a  murderer." 

How  firmly  it  is  settled  in  his  mind  that 
the  outside  world  is  mine  no  more! 

"But  then  I  shall  be  revered  as  a  scientist 
who  preserved  for  posterity  the  most  per 
fect  human  specimens  of  the  age  in  which  I 
lived.  I  shall  be  looked  upon  as  a  God.  It 
is  as  great  to  preserve  life  as  it  is  to  make  it." 
[841 


THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


The  next  room  we  entered  was  a  luxurious 
boudoir.  Before  an  exquisite  French  dress 
ing-table  sat  a  woman  whose  bronze  hair 
swept  the  floor.  On  either  side  peacocks 
stood  with  outspread  tails.  Their  backs 
served  as  a  rest  for  a  variety  of  jeweled  hair 
pins,  one  of  which  she  was  in  the  act  of  pick 
ing  up. 

"That  is  the  Contessa  Fabriani.     She  is  q,^ 
not  dead  yet.    She  hears  every  word  we  say, 
but  she  is  unable  to  speak.    I  am  painting  her 
now.     You  can  see  the  unfinished  picture 
.  against  the  wall." 

/  In  an  adjoining  room  a  dark-skinned 
woman  of  the  Orient,  whose  black  and  un- 
bound  hair  showed  purplish  tints,  was  re 
clining  upon  the  back  of  a  Bengal  tiger. 
Other  Eastern  women  lay  upon  couches 
and  divans. 

"See,  even  in  death,  what  enticing  lan 

guor!    See  the  arrested  dreams  in  their  dark 

eyes,    deep    as    an    Oriental    night!     These 

women  I  have  loved  very  greatly.     Some- 

[85] 


w 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

times  I  have  a  fancy  that  death  cannot  touch 
them.  In  them  there  is  an  electric  energy, 
the  stored-up  indestructible  ardor  of  the 
sun,  which,  I  like  to  fancy,  death  cannot 
dissipate." 

"Now  here,"  said  the  Count,  opening  an 
other  door,  "I  will  show  you  an  effect  I 
have  tried  for  years  to  reproduce.  This  has 
been  the  desire  of  my  life." 

He  flung  back  a  row  of  folding  windows, 
making  the  room  on  one  side  open  to  the 
sea. 

"It  is  the  effect  of  the  blended  radiance 
flung  from  the  water  here  and  the  moon, 
upon  dull  silver,  upon  crystal,  and  the  flesh 
of  blond  women." 

He  turned  out  the  lights.  The  moon  sent 
an  eerie,  shivering  luster  across  the  crystal 
and  silver  decorations,  and  touched  three 
women  in  robes  of  white,  who  were  standing 
in  attitudes  of  dreaming  indolence. 

"This  thin,  ethereal,  surface  light,  this 
puissance  de  lumiere,  is  what  I  have  tried 
[86] 


eeeeeeeeseeeeeeeeeeeseesseeseegsesessss 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 

ssssss^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

in  vain  to  prison.  I  have  always  been  greedy 
of  the  difficult  and  the  unattainable.  If  I 
could  do  this,  I  should  be  the  prince  of 
painters!  It  is  a  fact,  a  real  thing,  and  yet 
it  possesses  the  magic  of  dreams,  the  enchant 
ment  of  the  fleeting  and  the  illusory. 

"I  wish  to  be  the  wizard  of  light.  I  wish 
to  be  the  only  one  to  prison  its  bright,  de 
fiant  insubstantiality. 

"Can  you  not  see  how  wonderful  it  is? 
It  is  the  dust  of  light.  Reflected  upon  silver 
and  clear  crystal  it  is  what  shadow  is  to 
sound.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  like  a 
thin,  clear  acid;  then  like  some  blue,  sweet- 
smelling  volatile  liquid,  eager  again  to  join 
the  air. 

"  Have  you  noticed  how  it  penetrates  blond 
flesh?  It  reveals,  yet  transfigures  it.  I 
wish  you  could  watch  its  effect  often.  Some 
times  the  wind  churns  the  sea-light  into 
tiansparent  foam.  Then  I  love  its  curd- 
like,  piled-up  whiteness.  Sometimes  when 
there  is  no  moon,  and  only  a  wan,  tremulous 
[87] 


888888888888888888888338333338388388838 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


luster  from  the  water,  the  light  of  a  far  star 
is  focused  on  their  satins,  on  their  diamonds, 
struggles  eeriely  among  their  laces,  or  flickers 
mournfully  from  a  pearl.  The  room  then  is 
filled  with  a  regretful,  metallic  radiance.  The 
stars  caress  them.  They  have  become  im 
personal,  you  see,  and  the  eternal  things 
love  them. 

"When  the  autumn  moons  are  high,  the 
light  that  fills  the  room  is  resonant  and  yel 
low.  It  tingles  like  a  crystal.  It  gives  their 
cold  white  satins  the  yellow  richness  of  the 
peach's  heart,  and  to  the  women  the  enticing 
languor  of  life.  On  such  nights  the  moonlight 
is  musical  and  makes  the  crystal  vibrate 

"Now,  to-night,  the  light  is  more  like  the 
vanishing  ripple  of  the  sea.  Is  it  not  won 
derful?  Look!  It  is  the  twin  of  silence,  the 
ghost  of  light!" 

In  his  excitement  and  exhilaration,  his  eyes 
shone  like  the  moon-swept  sea.  I  knew  that 
in  them,  too,  slept  terrors  inconceivable. 

"This  is  the  room  I  have  in  mind  for  you. 
[88] 


icing    , 
ight/ 

--  / 


^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

You  will  queen  it  by  a  head  over  the  other 
women.  The  color  of  your  dress  is  right. 
Your  gems,  too,  are  white.  Here,  sometime, 
I  promise  to  join  you,  and  together  we  will 
be  immortal. 

"Excuse  me  just  a  moment.  Wait  here. 
Let  me  get  the  liquid  and  show  it  to  you. 
You  will  be  fascinated  by  it,  just  as  other 
women  have  been.  I  never  saw  one  who 
could  resist  it." 

As  he  left,  I  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock.  When  we  entered  the  other  rooms,  I 
remembered  that  he  bolted  the  doors  on  the 
inside.  This  door,  then,  was  the  only  one 
by  which  he  could  gain  entrance.  Swiftly 
I  slipped  the  bolt.  Now  I  was  safe  —  for  a 
tjme,  unless  there  was  a  secret  entrance. 

It  was  not  far  from  the  window  to  the 
water.  I  laughed  with  delight.  I  had  dived 
that  distance  many  a  time  for  pleasure.  I 
was  one  of  the  best  swimmers  in  England, 
and  I  had  always  longed  for  a  plunge  in  this 
sapphire  sea.  Now  was  my  chance  and  life 
[891 


essseseeseess&esssesesseeeseesessssssee 
THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 


as  the  goal  to  gain.  I  took  off  my  satin  gown 
as  gayly  as  I  had  put  it  on.  Like  the  Count 
of  Ponteleone,  I,  too,  admired  the  play  of 
light  on  its  piled-up  whiteness.  How  mer 
rily  the  sea-  wind  came!  How  it  counseled 

/urage! 
I  took  the  plunge.  Down,  down,  down  I 
went,  cleaving  the  clear  water.  The  distance 
up  seemed  interminable.  It  was  like  being 
born  again  when  at  last  I  saw  the  white 
foam  feather  my  arms  and  felt  my  lungs  ex 
pand  with  air.  I  swam  in  the  direction  of 
Naples.  I  could  not  reach  the  city,  but  I 
could  easily  reach  some  fisher's  hut  and  there 
gain  shelter. 

Oh,  the  delight  of  that  warm,  bright  water 
under  the  moon!  I  felt  that  the  strength  of 
my  arms  and  my  legs  was  inexhaustible.  I 
exulted  in  the  water  as  a  bird  exults  in  its 
natural  element,  the  air. 

After  I  had  covered  what  I  thought  to  be 
a  safe  distance,  I  turned  on  my  back  and 
floated.  .  2lien  I  caught  sight  of  the  window 

y 


3338S83388833333S3333SS3833S3S33S3S83S3 

THE  PAINTER  OF  DEAD  WOMEN 
eessssseseeeeeeeeeseeeesseeeseeeeesssss 

from  which  I  had  leaped.  It  was  brilliantly 
lighted.  Count  Ponteleone  was  leaning  from 
it,  his  white  hair  shining  like  a  malevolent 
flame,  y ' 

Despite  the  distance,  I  could  feel  the  power 
of  his  wild  blue  eyes,  which  sparkled  like 
the  sea.  Again  I  dived,  lest  they  should  re 
assert  their  power  over  me  and  draw  me  back. 

I  came  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  shore, 
and  made  my  way  along  until  I  reached  a 
boat  where  Neapolitan  fisherwomen  were 
spreading  their  nets  to  dry. 

They  took  me  in,  and  for  the  doubled 
price  of  a  good  month's  fishing  brought  me 
that  night  to  Naples. 

"Ah,  Luigi,"  I  sobbed,  as  he  folded  me  in 
his  arms,  "little  did  I  think,  when  you  spoke 
of  the  dance  this  morning,  that  I  should 
spend  the  night  with  the  dead  dancing 
women  of  Ponteleone." 

"Nor  I  that  you  would  solve  Naples' 
mystery  of  crime." 

[91] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

sQue  es  el  hombre  ?    Un  misterio. 

4Que  es  la  vida  ?    lUn  misterio  tambien! 

ESPRONCEDA. 

"S61o  en  tiempo  de  Felipe  II,  cuando  el  espiritu 
del  Renacimiento  se  hacia  sentir  alii,  fueron  pintadas 
muchas  hermosas  damas  para  su  galeria  de  retratos 
del  Prado." —  CARLOS  JusTi.1 

(In  the  time  of  Philip  the  Second,  when  the  spirit 
of  the  Renaissance  was  being  felt,  he  had  many 
beautiful  women  painted  for  his  gallery  of  the 
Prado.  —  CARLOS  JUSTI.) 

ARRIVED  in  Toulouse  on  my  home- 
•*•  ward  way  to  Spain  in  the  midspring  of 
1898. 

For  three  years  I  had  toured  the  world 
with  my  violin,  giving  concerts  in  its  prin 
cipal  cities.  I  had  been  flatteringly  received. 
Men  had  showered  their  gold  upon  me; 
women  their  flowers  and  favors.  I  was  ac- 

1  From  "Diego  Velazquez  y  su  Siglo,"  by  Carlos 
Justi. 

[92] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

essseeeseesesseeesesesseeseessesse&sses 

claimed  the  Spanish  Paganini,  the  greatest 
of  violinists,  the  premier  artist  upon  this 
difficult  instrument.  I  had  been  surfeited 
with  applause.  I  had  been  feted  until  I 
was  weary.  Now  I  was  looking  forward 
to  a  well-merited  rest  in  which  to  gratify 
my  love  of  art,  and,  perhaps,  try  my  hand 
at  composing.  In  addition,  I  longed  for 
the  dignified  ease,  the  cultivated  leisure  of 
the  life  of  a  Spanish  gentleman.  During  the 
years  of  concert  giving,  I  had  earned  enough 
to  give  myself  this  pleasure.  I  felt,  too,  that 
there  is  something  ignoble  in  prostituting 
art  to  gold  and  the  indiscriminate  applause 
of  the  multitude.  Art  should  be  superior  to 
traffic,  accessible  only  to  intelligent  under 
standing  and  to  love. 

As  I  mused,  a  messenger  entered  and 
handed  me  a  telegram.  It  announced  the 
death  of  my  maternal  great-uncle,  the  Conde 
de  Quederos.  The  telegram  said  that  before 
the  burial  every  effort  had  been  made  to 
reach  me,  and  that  since  there  were  no  direct 
[931 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

888888888888888888888888888888888888823 
heirs,  I,  as  nearest  in  blood,  inherited  the 
estate. 

I  could  not  grieve  over  my  uncle's  death. 
I  could  not  be  expected  to.  I  had  never  seen 
him  but  once,  and  that  was  when  I  was  a 
child.  In  addition,  I  knew  that  he  was  old, 
almost  if  not  quite  a  centenarian,  and  that 
long  ago  life  must  have  lost  its  charm.  My 
heart  warmed  with  gratitude  toward  that 
kindly  Fate  which  was  bestowing  favors 
upon  me.  Only  that  morning  I  had  medi 
tated  as  to  what  place  in  Spain,  now  that  my 
parents  were  no  more,  I  should  choose  for 
a  residence.  Here  was  the  problem  solved 
without  effort  on  my  part  and  in  a  most 
pleasing  manner. 

I  went  directly  to  Cuenca,  to  the  dead 
Conde's  castillo,  to  the  heart  of  that  old 
Castile  which  the  greedy  Romans  coveted. 
As  I  entered,  I  read  upon  the  fluted  shield 
above  the  door,  "Adelante"  (Go  on).  A 
brave  race  truly,  whose  motto  was  never  to 
turn  back. 

[94] 


8SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
esesesesessssseeseeeesessseesesesseeses 

In  the  hall  the  lined-up  servants  met  me, 
and  each  addressed  me  gravely  as  Conde  de 
Quederos.  That  night  I  had  a  conference 
with  the  steward  as  to  the  rooms  which  I 
was  to  occupy. 

"The  finest  suite  in  the  castillo,  Senor 
mio,  is  the  one  the  late  Conde  occupied.  It 
is  called  'The  Suite  of  the  Mirrors.' " 

"Mirrors!"  The  word  stirred  responsive 
memory.  "Is  not  there  a  magic  mirror,  so 
called,  here  in  the  castle?  It  seems  to  me 
I  remember  having  heard  something  of  the 
kind." 

"  Si,  Senor  mio.  It  is  in  the  drawing-room 
from  which  the  suite  takes  its  name.  They 
were  all  made  by  the  late  Conde's  great 
grandfather  at  La  Granja.  Mirror-making 
was  his  hobby." 

Yes,  yes;  now  I  recalled  the  stories  my 
mother  had  told.  Aloud  I  said:  "That  is 
the  suite  which  shall  be  mine.  Show  me  up." 

"Shall  I  light  the  drawing-room?" 

"No;   open  the  blinds  and  leave  me  while 
[95] 


eeeseeeesesseseeseeese&eeeseseeeeees&es 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

you  have  my  bags  unpacked  and  my  chamber 
made  ready." 

The  suite  consisted  of  a  bed-chamber  with 
dressing-room  attached,  and  a  sitting-room, 
which  from  its  size  and  adornment  was 
called  "The  Drawing-Room  of  the  Mirrors." 

Here  I  sat  down  to  rest  and  smoke  my 
after-dinner  cigar.  The  dim  summer  night 
filled  the  ancient  room  with  frail  shadows, 
making  the  mirrors,  which  reached  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  look  like  pale  plates  of  tar 
nished  steel. 

I  remembered  it  all  now!  It  came  back 
in  a  vivifying  flash  of  thought.  The  male 
members  of  my  mother's  family,  excepting 
the  late  Conde,  had  been  scientists  enrages. 
They  had  preferred,  too,  the  delusive  by 
ways,  the  dangerous  and  insecure  footings, 
where  fact  borders  upon  fancy,  where  the 
will-o'-the-wisp  of  unrealized  possibility  lures 
on.  They  had  wasted  life  and  impaired 
their  fortunes  in  following  unattainable  fan 
cies  and  in  trying  to  wrest  from  nature  secrets 
[96] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 


forbidden  to  man.  They  had  been  men  of 
strange  vagaries  and  inexplainable  passions, 
who  found  the  pleasure  of  existence  in  ways 
not  understood  by  others. 

The  great-grandfather  of  the  late  Conde 
had  been  devoted  to  mirror-making.  It  was 
his  effort  and  his  wealth  that  had  brought 
to  La  Gran  j  a  the  first  Venetian  specchiai, 
and  those  who  made  verres  de  cristal  and 
wrested  from  them  their  secret.  He  sent  to 
England  to  Lord  Buckingham  and  to  France 
to  Colbert  to  purchase  the  knowledge  of 
their  workmen  in  this  fascinating  art.  And 
it  was  he  who  made  the  sixteen  mirrors  in 
the  room  in  which  I  sat. 

Indeed,  the  age  in  which  he  lived  had  been 
mad  over  glass-making.  The  Council  of 
Ten  of  the  Venetian  Republic  went  so  far  as 
to  pass  a  law  that  its  nobles  might  wed  with 
the  glass-makers  of  Murano  without  loss  of 
caste.  It  was  the  only  work  which  did  not 
detract  from  a  great  noble's  dignity. 

France  imitated  Venice  and  made  a  similar 
[97J 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

law.  Spain,  thanks  to  the  effort  of  Conde 
de  Quederos,  was  not  behind  in  the  art. 
Nor  did  the  Conde  lose  standing  among  the 
ancient  nobility  of  Castile  for  the  hours  spent 
at  the  furnace.  With  its  introduction  from 
Italy  had  come  likewise  its  patent  of  nobility. 

After  the  old  Conde  had  gratified  his  love 
of  mirror-making  for  years  and  had  made 
fifteen  of  the  sixteen  mirrors  which  hung  in 
the  room  in  which  I  sat,  his  mind  was  teased 
with  the  desire  to  make  a  magic  mirror. 

With  this  object  in  view,  he  devoted  him 
self  to  the  chemistry  of  glass.  He  bought 
all  the  books  and  ancient  manuscripts  pro 
curable  upon  the  subject.  He  thought  of 
nothing  else.  He  talked  of  nothing  else, 
until  it  was  commonly  reported  that  he  was 
mad.  He  insisted  that  it  was  possible  to 
make  a  mirror  of  such  exquisite  purity,  of 
such  lustrous  depth,  that,  like  that  Borgian 
glass  which  snapped  in  twain  at  the  touch  of 
poison,  it  should  refuse  to  reflect  material 
bodies  and  earthly  substances  and  reproduce 
[981 


ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssa 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
sssssssss^sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

only  the  impassioned  dreams  of  the  mind, 
or  the  frail  and  insubstantial  spirit  forms 
which,  having  once  been  on  earth,  hover 
near  in  attempt  to  commune  again  with  the 
creatures  of  the  flesh.  What  wonder  they 
called  him  mad! 

A  few  days  before  his  death,  however,  the 
sixteenth  mirror  was  brought  from  La  Gran j a 
and  hung  in  the  place  reserved  for  it.  Just 
what  this  mirror  was  like  I  could  not  remem 
ber  having  heard.  The  next  night,  when  I 
was  less  weary,  I  determined  to  have  a  look 
at  the  old  Conde's  productions.  In  the 
magic  mirror  I  had  no  interest.  The  idea 
was  too  absurd.  It  was  a  madman's  dream. 

The  next  evening  I  ordered  the  chande 
liers  to  be  lighted  in  the  great  drawing-room, 
and  with  my  violin  tucked  under  my  arm 
hastened  thither.  It  was  a  noble  room  that 
lay  revealed  beneath  the  glitter  of  the  swing 
ing  crystals.  I  was  glad  that  I  had  not  spoiled 
the  first  effect  by  seeing  it  by  day.  It  was 
lofty,  and  long  by  some  forty  feet.  The  floor 
[99] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

was  worked  out  in  a  curiously  dim-bright 
design  made  of  marble  and  ancient  glass 
bricks,  in  whose  depth  glowed  mille  fiori. 
The  ceiling  was  a  richly  resplendent  canvas, 
whereon  were  depicted  giant  figures  repre 
senting  the  loves  of  Hercules  and  Omphale. 
The  walls  were  made  up  of  alternate  panels 
of  mirrors,  mural  paintings  continuing  the 
stories  of  classic  lovers,  and  spaces  of  myste 
riously  colored  and  strangely  wrought  glass, 
evidently  rare  and  priceless  specimens  of  the 
ancient  workmen  of  La  Gran j a. 

At  a  glance  the  mirrors  seemed  as  much 
alike  as  peas  in  a  pod.  They  reached  from 
floor  to  ceiling.  They  were  framed  uniformly 
in  the  heavily  ornate  frames  with  which 
fifteenth-century  Italy  supplied  the  world. 

Yet  the  effect  was  most  lovely.  Between 
the  feverish  panels  wherein  the  passion  of 
flame  had  prisoned  restless  colors  and  the 
perfervid  scenes  of  classic  love,  the  mirrors 
interposed  spaces  of  pale  neutrality  and 
mysterious  calm.  They  afforded  the  relief 
[100] 


eeesseeseeeeeeeeeeeesseeseseeesese&esss 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
sseesssseeesesessseeeeeseeeesssseseeess 

that  water  affords  in  the  out-of-door  land 
scape.  Their  unsoundable  depths  of  silence 
were  like  a  telescopic  glimpse  into  the  night 
of  space.  They  were  the  mute  and  motion 
less  keepers  of  secrets  of  another  world. 
Their  pale  passivity  was  more  pleasant  than 
silence.  Yet  at  times  they  seemed  to  tell  of 
the  possibilities  of  a  spirit  life  which  was 
centered  in  colossal  calm. 

What  artistry  had  been  expended  upon  the 
decoration  of  these  walls!  That  dead  uncle 
could  have  been  no  ordinary  man.  My 
heart  thrilled  with  pride.  It  was  worth 
being  called  mad  so  to  have  understood  the 
values  of  light. 

Drawing  an  easy-chair  before  the  central 
mirror,  I  took  up  my  violin  preparatory  to 
playing.  Then  I  noticed  that  the  frame  of 
the  central  mirror  was  unlike  the  others.  I 
looked  about  to  make  sure.  Yes,  it  was  the 
only  odd  one.  And  odd  enough  it  was,  made 
of  closed  flower  buds,  tiny  eggs,  and  folded 
leaves.  It  must  mean  something,  that 
[101] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  L\  GRAXJA 

»»»»  r>»  -- -  r  •  -  ~  -r »> »  -  -  r  _->~  - 

strange  frame.  It  was  not  chosen  with  an 
eye  single  to  decorative  ends.  It  was  an 
hieroglyph,  a  symbol.  But  what  one?  Each 
detail  represented  the  sleeping  germ  of  a  life 
principle.  In  the  egg,  in  the  bud,  life  is 
folded.  They  pointed  to  the  mirror  edge. 
Did  they  mean  that  there  too  life  was  folded? 
I  leaned  forward.  The  cold  face  of  the 
mirror  confronted  me.  I  started  with  fear. 
I  was  not  reflected  in  it!  Nothing  was  re 
flected  in  it!  Not  an  article  of  furniture, 
not  a  picture,  not  a  bead  of  light  from  the 
great  chandelier  above.  I  looked  about, 
This  was  the  only  odd  mirror.  I  made  sure 
of  that.  All  the  others  were  a-quiver  with 
light  and  color.  I  held  my  hand  in  front  of 
it,  I  waved  my  violin  to  and  fro.  In  vain! 
They  left  not  a  trace  upon  its  surface. 
Prickly  fear  crept  over  me,  I  shivered  as  if 
from  touch  of  the  dead  or  sweep  of  their 
icy  breath.  The  mirror's  pallid  passivity 
added  to  the  horror.  It  was  the  silent  mock 
ery  of  the  dead.  And  this  horror  was  born, 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 


not  of  midnight  noises  and  visions,  but  of 
silence  and  the  splendor  of  light. 

Only  last  night  in  this  very  room  I  had 
called  my  uncle  a  madman,  a  dreamer. 
How  ashamed  did  I  feel  of  my  vain  conceit 
of  the  evening,  confronted  with  this  produc 
tion  of  his  skill!  It  was  as  if  some  towering 
ghost  smiled  down  scornful  pity  upon  me, 
who  stood  there  dancing  about  like  a  maniac 
in  the  effort  to  wrest  a  responsive  reflection 
from  that  mute  surface.  Never  had  any 
thing  so  undone  me,  so  set  me  a-tremor  with 
discomfort.  I  was  in  touch  with  something 
of  which  I  knew  nothing,  with  an  unknown 
force  whose  extent  and  power  I  could  not 
measure. 

Controlling  my  nervousness,  I  sat  down  to 
contemplate  the  glass.  It  was  like  looking 
into  the  depths  of  a  pellucid  lake,  whose 
surface  had  never  been  rumpled  by  wind  or 
blurred  with  light.  It  was  like  a  glance  down 
infinitudes  of  space,  clearly  gray  and  sweetly 
translucent,  but  beyond  the  farthest  rim  of 
[1031 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 


the  worlds  where  not  even  star  dust  floated. 
It  was  a  place  where,  defiant  of  natural  law, 
light  existed  without  object.  It  was  a  void 
over  which  nature  had  no  power.  It  was  a 
pale  inanity,  the  antithesis  of  the  life  prin 
ciple  which  is  motion.  It  was  a  powerful 
and  repellent  nothing.  A  sickening  dizzi 
ness  assailed  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  perched 
upon  the  edge  of  an  abyss  wherein  material 
substances  were  lost.  I  was  conscious  of  a 
peculiar  revulsion,  a  sort  of  mental  nausea 
such  as  is  experienced  when  watching  a  ser 
pent  move,  throwing  off  electric  vibrations 
at  variance  with  the  human  organism. 

This,  then,  was  the  mirror  of  the  dead! 
It  was  a  place  for  spectres  to  disport  them 
selves  !  It  was  the  gray  shadow  world  where 
phantoms  dwelled!  Who  could  guess  what 
slept  within  its  depths!  Who  could  guess 
what  was  looking  out  upon  me  now  which 
my  physical  self  could  not  discern! 

I  closed  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight  and 
lifted  the  violin.    The  bow,  as  if  moved  by 
[  104] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
ssssssssssssss^sssssssssssssssss^ssssss 

an  impulse  of  its  own,  struck  the  slow,  pro 
longed,  high  notes  which  announce  the 
Saraband.  An  inspiration!  Why  should  not 
I  popularize  the  dance  music  of  Spain  as 
Chopin  had  that  of  Poland?  / 

For  a  time  I  played  on,  repeating  old  airs 
and  improvising  new  ones,Jbut  ever  recur 
ring  to  the  Saraband.  Nervousness  vanished. 
Others  had  put  up  with  this  non-committal 
mirror,  why  should  not  I?  Courage  returned. 
Music  exercised  its  old  magic.  Again  I 
cared  for  nothing  save  my  art. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  this  musical  rev 
erie  had  lasted  when,  opening  my  eyes,  I 
saw  in  the  depths  of  the  mirror,  but  far,  far 
away,  a  dim  white  figure.  I  was  playing 
the  Saraband.  I  noticed  that  when  certain 
notes  were  struck  the  figure  could  be  seen 
more  plainly,  that  it  grew  in  distinctness 
and  came  nearer,  while  others  made  it  recede 
and  fade  away. 

Was   it   the  creation    of   my  bow?    Now 

for  the  first  time  was  the  demon-compelling 
[105] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
eeseee&esseeessess&eeeseseeeessesseeses 

power  of  Paganini  mine?  Through  contem 
plation  of  that  crystal  surface  had  I  purged 
my  soul  of  impeding  impurities,  as  if,  denuded 
of  clothes,  I  had  swept  through  space  and 
bathed  in  its  crystal  ozone?  Had  not  the 
tones  of  my  violin  changed  too?  I  listened 
critically.  Yes;  they  had  a  certain  heart 
quality  which  had  been  lacking,  a  luscious, 
singing  richness,  colorful  and  sweet.  The 
single  tone,  divorced  from  melody,  filled  me 
with  delight.  Ambition  leaped  to  giant 
height.  Fear  vanished.  I  could  subdue  the 
world  —  I  —  I,  Lopez  Manrico !  I  bent  to 
my  playing.  Each  time  it  was  the  Saraband 
that  evoked  the  image.  No  other  melody 
whatsoever  had  the  power  to  do  it.  And 
there  were  certain  phrases  and  turns  of  this 
that  had  especial  effect  upon  it.  Once  I 
thought  that  I  could  discern  the  features  of 
the  figure,  and  I  did  glimpse  it  firmly  enough 
to  know  that  it  was  the  figure  of  a  woman. 
How  I  tried  to  prolong  the  notes  that  were 

creating  beneath  my  eyes  that  evanescent 
[106] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS^SSSSSSSS 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
egsseseesessseeseeeessessessssseses&ees. 

being!  How,  by  trained  trickery,  did  I  try 
to  prolong  the  instrument's  power  of  tone 
extension!  It  was  useless.  Strength  failed. 
My  arm  grew  weak  and  fell  of  its  own  accord, 
and  the  vision  paled  and  faded. 

The  old  Counts  of  Quederos  had  been 
scientists,  I  meditated.  One  had  devoted 
himself  jtx>  the  relation  of  sound  to  the  human 
body,  v,/ Perhaps  he  had  left  a  record  of  his 
discoveries.  I  would  go  to  the  library  and 
see.  At  least  the  books  that  he  had  studied 
would  be  there.  Excepting  only  the  Imperial 
Library,  the  Castillo  de  Quederos  contained 
the  finest  collection  of  rare  books  and 
manuscripts  in  Spain. 

I  ran  to  the  room  and  lighted  all  the  lights. 
Ardor  of  investigation  filled  me.  If  the 
problem  could  be  solved,  I  would  do  it.  Was 
it  not  a  duty,  too,  since  in  a  way  the  power 
lay  with  me?  "  Le  genie  s' oblige. " 

Here  were  the  books  of  the  old  glass- 
maker,  probably  arranged  just  as  he  had 

left  them:  John  Pechon's  treatise  on  optics, 
[1071 


ssseeseeeeeseessseegseesseeesessesessee 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
e^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. 

dating  from  the  thirteenth  century;  Birin- 
guccio's  receipts  for  glass-making;  Gar- 
zoni's  chemistry  of  glass;  the  three  books  of 
Eraclius,  who,  in  the  early  thirteenth  cen 
tury,  got  together  all  that  was  then  known 
of  the  art.  I  took  down  the  third  volume. 
It  opened  at  the  seventh  chapter,  where 
begin  the  receipts  for  compounding  the  sub 
stance.  This  was  not  what  I  wanted.  Nor 
did  I  care  more  for  the  poets  —  Lopez  Men- 
doza,  Ha  Levi,  nor  the  private  letters  of 
Cib-dareal,  precious  as  they  are. 

As  I  replaced  the  latter,  I  felt  something 
behind  it.  Inserting  my  hand,  I  pulled  out 
a  gilded  cylinder.  Within  it  lay  a  manu 
script  in  an  unknown  tongue,  and  with  it  a 
translation  made  by  a  Spanish  Jew.  The 
manuscript  proved  to  be  The  Resurrecting 
Powers  of  Science  by  Abu  Hamid  Algazali  of 
Bagdad.  Something  told  me  that  my  search 
was  rewarded.  I  pulled  a  chair  beneath  the 
nearest  light  and  there,  until  day,  perused 
the  parchment.  It  had  suffered  many  a 
[108] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

midnight  perusal.  Finger  marks  were  upon 
it,  and  it  was  frayed  and  soiled.  I  read: 

"Each  body  is  responsive  to  a  tone  or  a 
combination  of  tones. 

"Each  body  is,  in  a  sense,  a  musical  in 
strument  whose  vibrating  strings  are  taut 
nerves  and  muscles. 

"The  circulating  blood  sings  a  song. 

"Heart-beats  describe  a  melody. 

"One  of  the  energies  wrapped  up  in  the 
life  principle  is  a  musical  chord. 

"It  is  possible  for  music,  if  the  right  tone 
be  discovered,  to  arrest  ebbing  life  force,  or 
to  call  back  those  who  have  passed  beyond." 

"To  call  back  those  who  have  passed 
beyond!"  Here  it  was!  Now  I  understood. 
I  had  unwittingly  hit  upon  the  chord  that 
vibrated  in  unison  with  the  mirror  vision. 
What  a  possibility  lay  before  me!  I  could 
read  no  more.  Dizzy  with  the  discovery,  I 
went  to  bed.  I  did  not  even  pause  to  view 
the  wonder  of  the  dawn  that  was  bleaching 

the  night  pale. 

[109] 


When  again  night  came,  I  hastened  to 
the  drawing-room.  I  lighted  every  light.  I 
locked  and  bolted  the  door.  I  would  not 
permit  an  interruption. 

Then  I  took  the  melody  of  the  Saraband 
and  transposed  it  from  key  to  key.  In  this 
way  the  tone  I  sought  could  not  elude  me. 
The  first  notes  of  the  dance  evoked  the 
figure,  but  it  was  so  far  away,  so  dim,  it  was 
scarcely  more  than  a  breath's  shadow.  It 
was  only  with  the  key  of  F  minor  that  a 
change  came.  Then  the  figure  grew  more 
distinct.  Features  were  visible.  It  took  on 
color,  firm  form.  It  came  floating  on,  on, 
on,  toward  me,  until  within  the  glass  just  a 
few  feet  away  stood  a  lithe,  brown,  Moorish 
girl.  My  heart  choked  me  with  its  beating. 
It  was  all  that  I  could  do  to  command 
strength  with  which  to  continue  the  music. 

Very  gracefully  she  swayed  to  the  melody 

of  the  Saraband,  but  she  danced  it  in  a  way 

that  was  new  to  me.    On   her  head  rested 

a  tiny  cap   fringed  with  vari-colored  gems. 

[110] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
ssssssssssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssss 

She  wore  white  muslin  trousers,  very  full, 
gathered  at  the  ankle  with  bells  of  gold, 
whose  tongues  were  little  stones  that  looked 
like  flame.  The  upper  part  of  her  body  was 
covered  with  a  tight-fitting  vest  of  pale  blue, 
picked  out  in  silver,  and  a  tight-fitting  coat 
of  yellow  satin,  both  of  which  were  open  to 
the  waist,  disclosing  the  brown  skin.  From 
under  the  cap  her  hair  fell  in  long  braids, 
intertwined  with  coral.  Her  little  bare  feet 
were  encased  in  slippers  with  gem-studded 
heels.  She  was  evidently  a  Moorish  dancing- 
girl,  but  of  an  age  long,  long  gone  by. 

She  had  the  small  head  and  the  broad  low 
brow  of  ancient  races;  eyes  long,  dark,  and 
somber,  accented  by  brows  as  "  delicately 
arched  as  those  of  the  pictured  Cenci; "  a 
mouth  whose  warm  red  undercurve  contra 
dicted  the  saddened  eyes. 

She  was  a  frail  and  febrile  copy  of  Da 

Vinci's    St.    Marguerite,   who,   despite    her 

saintship,   is   a    Spanish   dancing-girl    in    a 

moment  of  repose.     There  was  something 

[111] 


'^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS^ 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

SSSSSSSSS^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

about  her  that  stimulated  the  powers  of 
life,  that  created  a  passionate  and  imperious 
music  which  flooded  the  soul  with  desire. 

But  it  was  the  eyes  that  held  my  atten 
tion  longest.  They  clung  to  mine  with  an 
unwavering  glance.  In  them  lay  a  mute 
appeal.  They  looked  at  me  piteously,  long 
ingly.  They  implored  help  of  me.  They 
were  like  eyes  that  look  from  the  other  side 
of  the  grave  with  the  hope  that  by  not  los 
ing  sight  of  mine  they  could  draw  themselves 
back  and  up  again  to  the  light.  They 
begged  for  life.  At  that  moment  I  would 
have  lain  down  my  own  life  to  give  momen 
tary  reality  to  hers. 

Nor  did  she  dance  continuously  like  the 
puppet  of  my  bow.  She  possessed  indepen 
dent  life.  She  paused  and  waved  and  beck 
oned  with  her  little  hands.  She  tried  to  make 
me  understand  her  dumb  sign  language, 
but  always  in  her  eyes  there  was  that  look 
of  piteous  questioning. 

She  was  so  frail  and  bright!    She  was  like 


eese&eseseseeeeeeseeeeeeeeeeesesesegees 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
egsseseseseeeesesggsessesdsesgseegsssgs 

a  butterfly  made  of  gauzeX  A  breath  could 
crush  her.  Yet  she  danced  bravely  to  please 
me,  to  win  my  applause.  Poor  little  lonely 
dancer !  Who  could  be  more  unsuited  to  the 
shadow  world?  xNever  had  I  so  realized  the 
cruelty  of  death.  Never  had  I  so  rebelled 
against  it.  What  had  her  crisp  muslins,  her 
satins,  and  her  frivolous  graces  to  do  with 
death!  I  longed  to  clasp  her  in  my  arms,  to 
breathe  my  own  life  breath  into  her,  to 
shield  her  from  that  awful  fear.  *•* 

Her  eyes  looked  into  mine.  Her  soul 
spoke  to  mine  and  was  understood,  but  her 
body  I  could  not  reach.  It  was,  perhaps, 
ages  away.  It  was  not  space  that  separated 
us;  it  was  something  crueler  far.  It  was 
time !  + 

Suddenly  a  tremor  passed  over  her.  What 
was  it!  Ah!  yes,  my  weary  arm  had  fal 
tered  in  its  playing.  The  little  face  quiv 
ered  with  fear.  She  held  out  her  arms  in 
mute  appeal.  I  was  helpless.  The  exhausted 
muscles  refused  to  obey.  My  arm  fell  to 
[1131 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

my  side.  She  floated  away,  away  down  the 
dim,  gray,  mirror  vista,  her  little  hands  flut 
tering  a  sad  farewell. 

When  I  put  out  the  lights  and  leaned  from 
the  window  for  a  moment  for  a  whiff  of  fresh 
air,  I  found  that  the  night  had  gone  and  that 
the  dawn  was  streaking  faintly  the  fields  and 
hills. 

That  day  I  slept  only  until  noon.  Nervous 
tension  prevented  rest.  The  remainder  of 
the  day  I  lounged  in  the  library  or  idled 
on  the  verandas,  living  over  again  in  thought 
the  incidents  of  the  night.  For  months  this 
was  my  life.  Not  once  did  I  leave  the  castillo, 
although  invitations  from  the  neighboring 
gentry  and  my  uncle's  friends  poured  in 
upon  me.  Nor  indeed,  during  this  time, 
did  I  see  any  one  but  the  servants.  I  denied 
myself  to  visitors.  I  thought  only  of  my 
Moorish  love.  I  dreamed  only  of  her  in  the 
few  day  hours  devoted  to  sleep.  Several 
times  I  saw  the  servants  touch  their  fore 
heads  significantly  when  they  passed  me, 
[114] 


Ei&x^^ 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
ssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssssssssssss 

and  I  heard  them  whisper,  "The  madness 
of  the  De  Quederos!" 

My  life  now  took  on  an  excessive  value. 
Did  not  another  depend  upon  it?  Without 
me  my  Moorish  love  was  dead.  With  me 
she  enjoyed  a  semi-being.  At  times  I  suf 
fered  the  most  torturing  fear  lest  accident 
to  me  condemn  her  forever  to  oblivion.  The 
thought  shook  my  soul. 

Each  night  when  my  playing  evoked  her, 
she  begged  more  piteously  for  life,  and  I, 
who  so  gladly  would  have  granted  it,  was 
powerless.  Each  night  her  sign  language 
was  more  comprehensible,  more  eloquent  of 
longing  and  of  love.  Each  night  my  love 
for  her  grew  greater.  WTien  the  hour  for 
parting  came,  I  felt  grjfef  such  as  they  who 
bury  those  they  love.|  How  could  I  know 
where  she  went,  what  horrors  encompassed 
her !  How  could  I  know  what  difficulties  she 
had  conquered  to  come  to  me !  How  could  I 
know  that  she  would  ever  come  again! 

By  day  the  burden   of  my  mind  was  to 
[115] 


know  where,  only  to  know  where,  she  was! 
Not  even  the  feverish  imaginings  of  my 
heart  could  frame  an  answer. 
/  At  night,  when  lights  began  to  twinkle  in 
the  little  houses  of  the  village  and  the  stars 
to  show  one  by  one,  I  looked  out  and  cursed 
them,  because  I  knew  that  in  not  one  of 
them  all  was  she.  In  all  the  broad  firmament 
she  was  not.  She  alone,  my  Moorish  love, 
had  no  share  in  the  sweetness  of  the  spring. 
I  grew  to  hate  the  world  that  had  cast  her 
off.  I  became  a  solitary.  How  could  I  be 
expected  to  mingle  with  people,  to  leave  the 
castillo !  Would  it  not  be  murder  to  do  so 
even  for  the  space  of  a  night?  Not  all  crimes 
are  amenable  to  law.  Her  life  depended 
upon  me.  Absence  meant  death.  Could  I 
condemn  her  I  loved  to  one  unnecessary  hour 
within  the  grave?  Did  I  not  always  see, 
sleeping  or  waking,  the  piteous  eyes  that  t/ 
begged  for  life?  Did  I  not  always  see  the 
mouth  that  tried  to  smile,  to  coquette,  de 
spite  the  death-fear  that  drooped  it? 
[116] 


I 

esesssseeesseeees&eeseeeeseeeeessessess 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
sseeeseesessssseeesseeeeeeeseeeseseeess 

But  how  could  I  explain  this  to  the  Conde's 
friends?  Had  I  done  so,  they  would  not  have 
understood.  I  really  believe  they  would 
have  called  me  mad.  I  persisted  in  silent 
refusals. 

What  a  fate  was  mine!  I  loved  a  woman 
who  was  separated  from  me  by  the  centuries. 
/I  loved  a  phantom,  a  vision,  a  self-created 
y  mirage.  I,  alone,  knew  that  this  vision 
possessed  life.  Night  after  night  we  con 
versed  by  signs.  Eyes  looked  into  eyes, 
soul  into  soul,  yet  might  we  never  join  hands 
or  lips.  We  saw  each  other  plainly,  yet 
might  our  voices  never  bridge  the  chasm  of 
the  ages.  Within  arm's  reach  of  me  she  stood, 
and  smiled  and  beckoned,  yet  I  had  not 
the  power  to  touch  her.  Her  red  lips  voiced 
messages  to  me,  but  the  wind  of  ages  rushed 
between  and  swept  them  away  to  bury  within 
soundless  silence.  What  torture  was  this! 
What  inexplainable  suffering!  In  subtle 
pun'shment  the  curse  of  Tantalus  was  not 
its  kin. 

1117] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 


Only  to  the  violin  could  I  confide  my  sor 
row.  I  threw  away  my  music.  My  heart 
alone  dictated.  Thus  I  poured  forth  my  long 
ing,  my  unsatisfied  passion,  and  my  grief. 
Thus  I  voiced  my  anger,  my  hatred  of  men,  of 
life,  my  rage  against  that  silent  and  invisible 
God  who  mocked  me  with  his  might,  and 
reduced  my  endeavor  to  puny  impotence. 

Sometimes,  when  cruel  notes  shivered  the 
air,  and  sharp  discords  all  but  snapped  the 
strings,  I  caught  sight  of  the  frightened  faces 
of  the  servants  coming  one  by  one,  a-tiptoe, 
to  peer  at  me.  Or  below  I  saw  teamsters  turn 
sharply  to  avoid  the  castillo  and  the  Roman 
bridge  beneath  my  window.  Too,  there 
were  fewer  travelers  on  the  road  of  late. 
Less  often  sounded  the  friendly  mule  bell. 
The  simple  peasants  were  terrified  by  the 
sounds  of  hate  and  rage.  The  servants,  too, 
feared  me.  They  believed  me  to  be  "pos 
sessed."  The  old  steward,  alone,  had  a 
different  opinion.  He  attributed  my  pecu 
liarities  to  drink  or  infatuation  for  a  woman. 
1118] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS2 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

33S3SSS8gS38S83g88SSS3SS3SSSS3S88SSS3S3 

The  more  so  since  of  late  no  one  had  been 
admitted  to  my  rooms.  One  day  the  kind 
old  fellow  touched  my  arm  in  a  fatherly 
manner  and  whispered,  "Mi  hijo,  ninos  y 
vinos  son  mal  a  guardar!" 

It  was  too  late  for  the  kindly  offices  of 
friends.  I  was  hopelessly  given  over  to  an 
infatuation.  I  had  lost  regard  for  appear 
ances.  I  did  not  care. 

Swiftly  the  days  slipped  by.  I  paid  as 
little  heed  as  do  they  who  live  under  emo 
tional  strain.  ^Spring  deepened  into  summer; 
autumn  came.  In  time  its  color  faded  be- 
/neath  the  mists  of  November.  Before  I 
knew  it,  la  noche  de  los  difuntos  (the  night  / 
when  the  dead  come  back)  was  at  hand. 

It  pleased  me  to  think  that  then  I  could 
celebrate  my  wedding  with  the  dead.  For 
the  occasion  I  had  the  great  drawing-room 
filled  with  flowers.  At  the  last  moment  the 
caprice  seized  me  to  don  the  state  costume  of 
a  courtier  of  Philip  the  Second.  Then  I  drew 
a  gilt  couch  of  old  brocade  in  front  of  the 
[119] 


mirror  and  with  closed  eyes  began  to  impro 
vise  upon  the  dance. 

Suddenly  a  little  hand  touched  my  shoul 
der  and  a  voice  whispered:  "Will  you  not 
look  at  me,  now  that  I  have  come?" 

There  she  was  beside  me,  and  more  lovely 
by  half  when  freed  from  the  mirror's 
gray  ness. 

"But  you  —  will  you  not  tell  me  who 
you  are?"  I  whispered  back  in  an  ecstasy 
of  love. 

"Zarabanda." 

"  Zarabanda!  " 

"Yes,  why  not?" 

"The  Moorish  love  of  Philip  the  Second?" 

Passion  and  its  artistic  embodiment,  music, 
had  made  my  love  outlast  the  empire  that 
gave  her  birth.  She  had  survived  Spain  and 
its  splendor. 

I  was  perched  upon  a  dizzy  height  indeed. 
Below  me  the  gray  centuries  unfolded. 

At  the  word  "Philip"  grief  contracted 
her  face. 

[120] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 


"Oh,  Philip!  Philip!  Will  you  not  call 
him?  Will  you  not  let  me  see  him?  I  will 
never  ask  it  of  you  again.  You  need  not  be 
afraid  because  he  is  a  great  king.  Give  him 
this,"  taking  a  bracelet  of  peculiar  work 
manship  from  her  arm  and  handing  it  toward 
me.  "He  will  understand.  He  will  come 
anywhere  for  me." 

Grief  filled  my  heart.  It  was  not  I  she 
loved  —  I,  who  had  recreated  her,  who  had 
brought  her  back  from  the  grave.  It  was 
not  I  she  thought  of,  but  that  cruel  and 
long-dead  king. 

"Believe  me,  my  little  love,  I  would  do 
anything  for  you  but  this  —  which  is  im 
possible." 

"Just  once,  please,  just  once!  He  was  so 
handsome,  Philip,  and  he  loved  me  so.  Be 
fore  he  married  Mary  of  England  he  took  me 
to  Granada,  to  the  town  of  the  wall  of  a  thou 
sand  towers.  There  he  would  have  married 
me,  had  it  not  been  for  Perez,  the  Great 
Minister!" 

[121] 


sss^s^^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
se&sssessesseseeseeeee&eesssssseessesss 

At  mention  of  that  name  a  shiver  passed 
over  her,  the  memory  of  an  ancient  fear,  set 
ting  crisply  a- jingle  the  gems  upon  her  cap 
and  the  gold  bells  on  her  trousers. 

"There  I  invented  the  Saraband.  It  was 
the  dance  he  loved,  and  he  named  it  for  me. 
All  Spain  danced  it  then. 

"One  day  he  was  called  away  by  a  court 
messenger  from  Madrid.  When  he  left,  he 
swore  to  marry  me.  On  a  certain  day  I  was 
to  meet  him,  having  sent  word  three  days 
before.  Then  he  was  to  marry  me  and  make 
me  queen! 

"  But  as  soon  as  he  went,  I  was  seized  and 
imprisoned.  I  could  not  send  him  word.  I 
never  saw  him  again.  Oh,  please  let  me  tell 
him  why.  He  thinks  I  failed  him.  Let  me 
tell  him  why!" 

"I  would  do  it  if  I  could.  I  would  do  any 
thing  for  you,  but  how  can  I?" 

"Why?  Philip  is  not  —  "  Her  dark  face 
blanched,  fear  leaped  into  her  eyes.  "Philip 
—  is  not  —  dead?  " 

[122] 


eeeesseessesssesesesseeseeseegseeeesses 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

v  I  nodded.  Not  a  word  did  she  say,  but 
tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  fell  slowly,  one 
by  one,  upon  her  little  hands.  Never  before 
had  I  realized  the  word's  leaden  weight.  It 
was  a  plummet  line  that  found  the  heart  of 
grief.  / 

"Then  there  is  nothing  more  to  live 
for!" 

The  words  pierced  me  like  a  dagger.  I 
knew  how  complete  was  her  indifference 
to  me. 

"How  long  ago  did  he  die?"  she  asked, 
with  a  sigh  that  shook  her  body  as  a  ground 
swell  shakes  the  sea. 

Could  I  tell  her?  That  would  mean  an 
other  grief. 

"Tell  me  when  he  died;   how  long  ago." 

"In  1598." 

"And  now  what  year  is  it?" 

"1898.     Three  hundred  years." 

"  Three  hundred  years  he  has  slept  and 
dreamed  me  false!  And  now  I  can  never 

tell  him!" 

[123] 


833338383333333333388882388323288338833 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

338333388888888883238883888888888838388 

My  heart  forgot  its  suffering  in  sympathy 
for  her. 

"Now  I  can  never  tell  him!" 

Silence  fell  between  us.  She  forgot  my 
presence,  so  complete  was  her  absorption  in 
the  past. 

I  The  breath  of  the  late  autumn  came 
through  the  ancient  windows,  slanting  for 
an  instant  the  flames  of  chandeliers  and 
sconces  until  they  looked  like  an  army's 
bloody  spears  upraised  in  flight.  Opposite 
the  mute  mirror  oppressed  me  with  its  sug 
gestion  of  nothingness  and  of  space.  The 
flowers,  too,  became  restless  and  shivered, 
as  if  some  foreign  element  had  disturbed 
them. 

As  I  thought  thus  gloomily,  the  little 
brown  hand  fell  on  mine,  and  the  voice 
whose  sound  was  like  the  veiled  tone-sweet 
ness  of  a  harp  was  saying: 

"Then,  if  it  was  so  long  ago,  you  did 
not  know  Tiziano,  who  painted  me,  did 

you?" 

[124] 


eesseeeeeee&esseeseseeeeseeeseeeeeesses 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

ssssss^sssssssss^ssssssssssssssssssssss 

How  pitiful  was  this  effort  to  be  gay! 

"  Tiziano-was-a-noble-man-f  rom- Venezia. ' ' 

The  words  were  hyphenated  with  sighs. 

"Oh,  he  was  a  very  great  painter!  He 
said  I  was  the  loveliest  woman  in  Europe. 
The  court  ladies  were  wild  with  envy.  But 
he  would  have  none  of  them.  It  was  I  he 
wanted  —  I  —  I !  He  painted  me  lying  beside 
an  open  window,  a  Cupid  holding  a  crown 
above  my  head.  At  my  feet  sat  Philip  — 
Philip,  the  king,  at  my  feet!  There  is  a 
little  cap  upon  his  head,  and  he  is  playing 
the  Saraband  upon  his  lute.  In  the  back 
ground  I  made  him  paint  the  highland  coun 
try  of  Madrid,  which  I  should  look  out  upon 
when  I  was  queen  — 

"Yes!"  I  interrupted  excitedly,  unable 
to  stand  more.  "Philip  might  have  given 
you  a  crown;  I  have  given  you  life.  Which 
is  greater?  Whom  do  you  owe  the  most? 
Have  you  no  thought  of  me?  My  love  has 
brought  you  back  from  the  grave,  and  now 
you  think  only  of  him!" 
[125] 


e&sesss&seseseeeeee&seeeeeeeeeeseeesses 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

S8SS88S333333388S838SSS8333383S33SS3333 

The  little  hand  on  mine  fluttered  sensi 
tively.  I  grasped  it.  Its  delicate  touch 
made  me  recall  what  I  had  read  of  the  fine 
skin  texture  of  women  of  the  dark  races.  I 
pressed  my  lips  to  it  with  delight.  From  it 
came  a  peculiar  odor,  as  from  some  unknown 
exotic,  which  took  the  senses  captive. 
VUntil  now  I  had  never  loved  a  woman.  I 
had  loved  pictures,  I  had  loved  marbles,  but 
a  living  woman  never.  Acquaintance  with 
the  most  exquisite  and  exacting  of  arts  had 
perhaps  made  my  senses  superfine.  The 
slightest  physical  imperfection  was  sufficient 
to  spoil  my  pleasure.  Old  age  —  that  phys 
ical  memory  of  many  wearinesses  —  filled 
me  with  disgust.  Of  love  I  did  not  ask  a 
return,  but  the  near  presence  of  something 
faultless,  something  which  might  never  pall 
upon  my  senses,  something  which  I  might 
love  unrestrainedly.^ 

During  the  years  of  concert  giving  I  had 
been  attracted  by  beautiful  faces,  but  ac 
quaintance  seldom  failed  to  dispel  the  glam- 
[  126] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss, 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

our.  Their  possessors  were  self-seeking,  vain, 
frivolous.  Disgust  took  the  place  of  admi 
ration.  It  was  a  disagreeable  sensation  which 
I  did  not  like  to  endure  for  the  second  time, 
to  find  a  woman  of  delicate  and  sensitive 
beauty  possessed  of  the  grasping  nature  of  a 
miser,  or  caring  only  for  detail  of  practical 
things.  Nothing  in  womankind  had  made 
me  so  dislike  the  race  as  this  union  of  external 
beauty  and  prosaic  practicability. 

Here,  for  the  first  time,  was  a  woman 
whom  I  could  love.  She  had  none  of  the 
traits  of  the  modern  woman.  She  could  not 
prate  of  things  that  disgusted  and  bored  me. 
In  her  eyes  there  was  no  consciousness  of  the 
life  I  detested.  She  was  mine  in  a  very  real 
sense  because  I  had  created  her.  I  measured 
the  greatness  of  my  love  by  the  knowledge 
that  I  could  love  on  while  knowing  that  her 
heart  was  another's.  If  one  loves,  it  is  not 
necessary  to  be  loved  in  return.  Love  is  its 
own  reward.  Already  I  felt  its  ennobling 
influence. 

[127] 


ssseeees&eeeeeeesesseesesseeeseesessees 
THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

ss^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

Ah!  how  she  enchanted  my  soul  leaning 
there  against  the  high  gilt  sofa's  end!  Her 
black  braids  swept  the  floor.  Her  brown 
feet  from  which  the  slippers  had  fallen  were 
folded  childishly,  showing  little  pink  nails 
a-shine. 

Every  gem  of  color  on  her  costume  was  like 
the  dropping  of  a  note  of  liquid  melody  into 
my  soul.  She  was  an  exquisite  toy  of  flesh 
fashioned  for  love.  She  was  a  fine-wrought 
gem  of  palest  bronze,  from  which  the  swing 
ing  lights  struck  cream  and  amber  gleams. 

"Zarabanda,  my  Moorish  love!  You  shall 
learn  to  care  for  me  and  forget  him.  I 
swear  it!  What  a  life  we  will  lead  together, 
you  and  I!  He  could  have  brought  Spain 
to  your  feet.  I  will  bring  the  world.  You 
shall  see!  You  shall  see!  I  will  bring  the 
world.  I  will  show  this  modern  age  which 
loves  ugliness  —  I  will  show  it  the  noble 
type  of  antique  beauty!"  Thus  I  raved  in 
my  infatuated  dream. 

My  fervor  moved  her.  She  sat  up  erect. 
[128] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
eeese&eeeessseeesseeeeessseeseeseeeseee, 

The  jewels  on  her  cap  danced  brightly. 
She  leaned  toward  me.  I  saw  that  my  suit 
was  not  to  be  in  vain.  The  look  of  piteous 
fear  within  her  eyes  which  had  so  haunted 
me  for  months  was  gone.  In  its  place  there 
was  a  look  which,  had  she  possessed  no  other 
charm,  would  have  bound  me  to  her  forever. 
How  shall  I  describe  it? 

It  was  the  essence  of  that  which  I  missed 
in  modern  pictures  which  represent  antique 
life.  It  was  just  that  which  I  missed  in  the 
women  of  Tadema.  It  was  just  that  which 
their  eyes  had  not.  It  was  a  look  made 
up  of  the  accumulated  days  of  living  a  life 
totally  dissimilar  to  our  own,  a  life  made  up 
of  dissimilar  thoughts,  pleasures,  needs.  In 
short,  I  saw  within  the  eyes  of  Zarabanda 
the  soul  of  a  vanished  age.  My  mind  was 
filled  with  a  thousand  fancies. 

Looking  at  her,  I  sensed  vividly  the  im 
perial  love-hours  of  Moorish  beauties  who 
had  wantoned  by  the  wall  of  a  thousand 

towers.     Their   purple   and   palpitant  past 
[  129] 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

eesesesesseseesesgesse&eesesessegsssses 

engulfed  me.  The  penetrating  color- joy  of 
pagan  pageants  swept  my  senses,  leaving  a 
myriad  burnished  points  of  thought.  The 
voluptuous  phantoms  of  past  pleasures  in 
toxicated  me.  The  life  that  pagan  Spain 
had  lived  in  ancient  days,  before  Chris 
tianity  had  come  to  make  bitter  upon  its 
lips  the  wine  of  joy,  was  distilled  within  my 
soul.  Love,  thought,  creative  fire,  lifted 
life  to  divinest  height,  intensifying  all  its 
powers. 

Before  my  feverish  and  exalted  fancy  there 
rose  a  vision  of  the  East,  the  personified 
East,  the  seductive  East,  the  glorious  and 
sensuous  East,  swathed  in  a  robe  of  mist 
which  palpitated  like  the  voluptuous  veins 
of  women  when  the  tide  of  love  is  high. 
This  vision  inundated  my  senses  in  a  shim 
mering  wave,  which  rolled  its  long,  foaming 
coils  of  pleasure  over  me. 

Bending  down,  I  folded  her  in  my  arms. 
I  felt  her  little  brown  arm  slip  round  my 
neck,  its  softness  rivaling  the  down  beneath 
[130] 


eeessseeeeeesseeeseseeeeeseeseeeeeesess 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 
eeeseesesseesseeeseeesgeesssseeeeeeeees 

a  sea-gull's  wing.  The  penetrating  Eastern 
perfumes  struck  my  face,  the  blended  sweet 
ness  of  aloes  and  ambergris.  Her  brown 
breasts  became  two  moons  of  gold  beneath 
the  shadowy  twilight  of  her  throat.  The 
thick  hair  with  its  trailing  braids  was  an 
Eden  of  dim  and  amorous  ways,  where  a 
promise  dwelled.  As  I  drew  her  nearer, 
her  eyes  became  black  lakes.  Exquisitely 
pale  her  face  was,  like  warm  ivory.  Nearer 
and  nearer  to  me  the  red  mouth  came;  I 
knew  that  upon  it  dwelled  all  the  sweetness 
and  all  the  savors  of  the  South.  My  lips 
just  brushed  it,  when,  with  a  reverberant 
crash,  the  great  mirror  fell  and  shivered  in 
a  thousand  pieces.  My  arms  encircled  the 
empty  air.  She  was  gone  —  gone,  and 
forever. 

Thick  dust  of  powdered  chemicals,  with 
which  the  glass  was  coated,  filled  the  air. 
I  hastened  to  gain  the  window.  Something 
fell  at  my  feet.  It  was  her  bracelet. 

I  reached  the  window  just  as  the  sun,  its 
[1311 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  MIRROR  OF  LA  GRANJA 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

red  rays  throbbing  like  a  crown  of  blood, 
dipped  above  the  horizon  line.  By  its  angry 
glare  I  read  upon  the  golden  band,  which 
was  all  that  remained  to  me  now  of  my 
one  night  of  joy,  "Philip,  To  His  Moorish 
Love." 


[132] 


LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

TT  was  in  the  winter  of  1906  that  the  fol- 
-••  lowing  remarkable  incidents  were  com 
municated  to  me,  and  truly  in  a  most  re 
markable  manner.  But  who  may  say  what 
shall  be  the  intermediary  link,  the  invisible 
tie  to  connect  us  with  the  facts  of  a  van 
ished  past?  Who  may  say  what  vague  but 
mentally  potent  beings  dwell  on  the  border 
line  separating  the  real  from  the  unreal, 
floating  up  perhaps  from  unthinkable  depths 
of  time  and  space,  there  to  await  the  pro 
pitious  moment  for  tapping  some  nerve  of 
consciousness  in  us  and  establishing  tele 
graphic  communication  with  the  soul?  Over 
these  spirit  wires  of  thought  and  feeling 
they  flash  faint  messages.  They  set  the 
nerves  a-tingle  with  the  consciousness  of  an 
infinity  of  unknown  lives  surrounding  our 
own,  of  invisible  electric  bodies  that  shock 
[133] 


3338838383338S888888S8S838S883888888883 
LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

888888388888888888388383888838888838883 

us  into  the  recovery  of  forgotten  memories, 
of  the  realization  of  a  limitless  land  that 
spreads  beside  us  and  upon  the  verge  of 
which  we  live  precariously  poised. 

On  an  afternoon  in  the  winter  of  1906  I 
attended  a  concert  given  by  two  well-known 
pianists.  The  piece  de  resistance  of  the  con 
cert  —  it  was  for  this  that  I  had  come  - 
was  a  two-piano  number,  the  Concerto  Pa- 
thetique  of  Liszt,  that  sonorous  tone  tragedy 
with  its  wildly  dramatic  incidents,  inter 
rupted  from  time  to  time  by  a  melody  of 
more  than  mortal  sweetness.  As  I  listened, 
annoyed  by  the  movements  of  seat  compan 
ions,  the  bobbing  black  heads  in  front,  or  the 
dry  winter  light  that  filtered  through  a  win 
dow  to  the  right,  striking  sharply  a  corsage 
ornament  or  a  jewel,  and  projecting  into 
my  eyes  daggered  light  as  from  a  crystal 
ball,  suddenly  my  surroundings  vanished, 
and  I  found  myself  alone  looking  out  across 
a  land  that  I  had  never  seen. 

Before  me  lay  a  twilight  desert,  somber  and 
[134] 


LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

lonely.  Gray  sand,  uninterrupted  by  tree 
or  dwelling,  as  undulating  and  as  barren  as 
the  sea,  stretched  on  and  on.  After  a  time 
I  discovered  that  it  was  not  twilight  that 
caused  the  dimness.  Upon  the  horizon  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  the  vanishing  of  a 
sun  or  the  future  rising  of  a  moon.  Within 
the  sky  there  were  no  stars.  A  Cimmerian 
twilight  lay  over  all.  I  realized  then  that  it 
was  some  place  of  purgatorial  punishment, 
where  sweet  light  did  not  come  nor  green 
earth  growths,  nor  rain,  nor  the  sound  of 
leaves.  It  was  a  place  of  puzzling  incom 
pleteness  and  fragmentary  physical  form. 
There  were  arms  twisted  and  bony  and 
unattached  to  bodies,  whose  bent-fingered 
hands  thirsted  for  cruelty  or  itched  for  gold. 
There  were  legs  wrinkled  and  withered  with 
pain  and  curved  fantastically.  There  were 
backs  bowed  by  the  bearing  of  burdens,  and 
a  multitude  of  winged  and  awful  faces  form 
ing  a  discordant  chromatic  scale  of  miseries, 
now  flashing  out  leering  and  wanton  smiles, 
[1351 


888888888888388888888888888888888888388 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

and  anon  fading  away  into  monotonous 
gray  ness. 

It  was  a  land  of  disembodied  pain,  where 
the  shadow  forms  of  sorrow  dwelled.  Re 
gret,  remorse,  shame,  misery,  and  anguish 
here  got  themselves  clothed  in  unearthly 
substances,  and  strained  futilely  earthward 
where  repentance  lay.  Here  evil  thoughts 
and  desires  were  at  once  translated  into 
form,  swiftly  to  fade  back  again  by  un 
countable  disgusting  gradations  to  the  in- 
substantiality  of  dreams. 

Across  this  desert  a  woman  fled,  breathless 
with  haste  and  terror.  She  was  young, 
scarcely  more  than  a  child,  as  years  count, 
and  she  would  have  been  beautiful  had  not 
her  features  been  disfigured  by  grief.  Out 
behind,  a  long  black  robe  floated  like  an  em 
blem  of  evil,  giving  to  her  appearance  a  cer 
tain  cloistral  touch.  Closer  inspection  proved 
it  to  be  a  nun's  cloak.  It  was  unfastened 
and  thrown  hastily  about  her  where  it  was 
held  together  by  one  small  nervous  hand. 
[136] 


83888S3SSS8S38888888SS88888S3888S883833 
LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

833888838883888388838888838888883888883 

Her  hair,  which  was  pale  gold,  was  short- 
cropped  and  curly,  and  bore  the  imprint  of 
a  close  covering.  There  was  something 
pitiful  in  these  little  clustering  curls  of  faded 
gold,  which  were  down-soft  like  the  hair  on 
a  baby's  neck.  They  told  of  helplessness  and 
youth.  Now  in  places  they  were  darkened 
by  the  perspiration  of  fear.  Cloistral  life 
and  the  nun's  hood  had  bleached  her  face 
and  given  to  it  a  marble  pallor,  until  it 
seemed  to  radiate  light  in  the  general  dimness. 
/Her  eyes  were  a  dark  ethereal  blue.  In  their 
depths  lay  a  light  made  of  blended  pain, 
passion,  and  regret.  As  the  hideous  sand 
monsters  drifted  toward  her,  threatening  to 
block  her  way,  then  vanished  to  reshape 
themselves  into  still  more  hideous  forms, 
childishly  she  opened  her  mouth  to  call  for 
help.  But  no  sound  issued  from  her  lips, 
although  the  little  chin  quivered  piteously. 
I  knew  that  she  was  dumb  and  could  not 
speak. 

As  she  sped  on,  upborne  by  an  unnatural 
[137] 


888888888888888888888888888388888888388 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

888888888888888888888888888888828888883 

energy,  there  rang  out  upon  the  desert  air  a 
melody  of  more  than  mortal  sweetness,  the 
brief  and  broken  fragment  of  a  phrase.  As 
the  music  died  away  upon  the  moonless 
space,  there  fell  across  the  sand  the  pallid 
cold  radiance  of  a  cross,  but  so  far  away,  so 
etherealized  by  space  and  distance,  that  it 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  shadow's  shadow. 

At  first,  I  thought  that  the  music  was  in 
some  inexplicable  way  related  to  the  beauty 
of  her  face  —  that  perhaps  they  were  one. 
There  was  a  similarity  between  them.  Both 
set  to  vibrating  the  same  responsive  fibers  of 
the  heart.  Both  were  penetratingly  sweet, 
yet  touched  with  sorrow. 

Further  consideration  proved  this  conjec 
ture  to  be  vain,  and  that  the  music  came 
from  some  alien  yet  nearby  place.  I  could 
see  by  the  woman's  face  that  it  caused  her 
joy  and  sorrow,  and  I  felt  that  it  always 
sang  on  in  her  heart,  and  that  her  trembling 
lips  tried  to  frame  its  sounds.  Yet  —  in 
some  way  I  could  not  understand  —  it  kept 
[138J 


8S888S888888888888888888888888888g88888 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 
eessesegssseseseeeeee&essesssess&sesses 

her    forever    outside   the    radiance    of    the 
cross. 

Again  and  again  it  rang  out  —  a  melody 
of  more  than  mortal  sweetness.  And  each 
time  the  woman  hastened  her  pace.  The 
face  of  the  desert  began  to  change,  and  in 
the  distance  there  was  something  that  lay 
like  the  shimmer  of  light.  I  watched  it  as  it 
grew  brighter.  Colors  were  distinguishable. 
It  was  a  garden!  Oh,  the  yearning  in  her 
face!  Oh,  the  effort  with  which  she  sum 
moned  strength  to  reach  it!  Her  eyes  grew 
black  with  determination.  Her  little  curls 
were  spotted  with  moisture.  Sweeter  and 
more  penetrating  became  the  breath  of 
melody.  It  winged  her  feet  with  courage. 
It  put  strength  into  her  heart.  Yes,  yes, 
there  it  lay!  A  fresh,  bright,  green  garden, 
where  a  happy  multitude  of  tiny  blue  and 
white  flowers  grew.  Over  it  iris-winged 
insects  fluttered.  The  sun  shone  resplen- 
dently.  Here  was  the  home  of  the  melody. 

Its  sweetness  was  that  of  love  and  the  fullness 
[139] 


3S88388888333333383833383333SS388838S38 
LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

388838388388888883888388888888888833883 

of  life.  Now  the  radiance  of  the  cross  no 
longer  touched  the  sandy  waste.  It  re 
mained  high  in  the  air,  aloof  and  far,  a  wan 
gold  shadow  of  exquisite  remoteness,  like 
the  ghost  of  a  vanished  joy. 

As  she  drew  nearer,  more  intense  became 
the  light  that  fell  upon  the  garden.  It  be 
came  a  blue  and  dazzling  glory,  beneath 
which  the  tiny  flowers  expanded  and  ex 
panded  until  they  were  lilies  of  mammoth 
size  and  proportion.  Oh,  so  lustrous,  so 
satin  soft,  so  voluptuously  lovely  was  their 
texture!  A  rare  fragrance  filtered  from 
them  through  the  sand-thick  air,  a  lan 
guorous,  seductive,  benumbing  fragrance, 
like  the  intangible  soul  of  pleasure.  When 
again  the  music  came,  the  giant  lily  buds 
burst  open,  disclosing  in  place  of  pistil  and 
stamen  the  white  glorious  bodies  of  women, 
whose  hair  outfloated  in  bright  crinkles  like 
blown  flame,  and  whose  feet  trod  an  amorous 
measure. 

Now  I  knew  whence  the  music  came.  It 
[140] 


eeese&eeeeesseeseeeeseseseeeesees&ees&s 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 
eseseeeseeeseee&esesseeeesssesesesesses 

was  made  by  the  twining  beauty  of  seduc 
tive  arms,  the  swaying  of  bright  torsos,  the 
interlacing  of  lithe  limbs,  the  argent  light 
struck  from  bared  breasts  and  brows.  It 
was  their  white  passion,  their  wanton  love 
liness,  their  amorous  longing,  their  electric, 
vital,  and  indomitable  youth  translated  into 
tone. 

Far  above  the  desert  now,  the  wan  cross 
hung  in  dim  remoteness,  a  faint  frown  of  light, 
withdrawing  coldly  into  the  depths  of  space. 
The  garden  glory  touched  the  woman's 
face.  The  sand  monsters  fell  back,  no  longer 
encumbering  her.  Happiness  and  courage 
shone  from  her  eyes.  The  journey  was 
nearly  over.  A  step  —  a  dozen  steps  and 
she  would  have  gained  the  garden.  She  was 
all  but  there.  She  flung  away  the  convent 
cloak.  The  sweet  wind  lifted  the  little  curls 
upon  her  brow.  A  blue  lily  leaned  amo 
rously  to  meet  her,  its  petals  ready  to  enfold 
her.  The  strange  light  swathed  her  about 
like  a  robe.  The  melody  touched  her  heart 
[141] 


S3333333332S3333S33333333S3333333333333 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 
338383383333333338833833333333333338833 

to  joy.  She  was  ready  to  grasp  a  waiting 
flower;  one  white  hand  reached  for  it,  when 
a  thunder  of  many  wings  was  heard. 

From  across  the  desert,  from  the  sky  above, 
a  multitude  of  blackish  green-winged  mon 
sters,  darkening  the  air  to  a  dun  midnight, 
dashed  down.  Their  black  and  sullen  bodies, 
outspread  wing  on  wing,  shut  out  the  garden 
and  formed  a  hideous  wall  of  crawling  heads. 
The  great  wings  surrounded  and  engulfed 
her,  beating  her  back  —  back  —  back  —  with 
lightning-like  rapidity.  Away,  away,  away 
they  swept  her,  so  swiftly  that  the  desert  was 
left  behind.  And  still  they  swept  her  on  and 
on,  across  another  land  —  a  land  of  granite, 
bleak  and  sterile  and  black,  whose  darkness 
was  shivered  from  time  to  time  by  the  angry 
glare  of  whirling  swords  that  formed  the 
mighty  gate  of  a  realm  of  night.  Here  the 
whirring  wings  uplifted  her.  She  had  no 
more  hold  upon  the  earth.  Below,  above, 
beside,  were  depth  on  depth  of  overlapping 
wings.  Once,  for  an  instant,  the  swaying, 
[142] 


383383838838388838833888388838333888883 

LISZT'S  CONCERTO  PATHETIQUE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

fluttering  band  fell  back.  Sharp  sword  light 
streaked  her  face.  I  saw  its  white  horror 
and  the  little  curls  a-dance  with  fear.  Then 
more  monsters  came  rushing.  The  earth 
and  the  air  were  a-quiver  with  wings.  There 
was  a  rush  and  a  roar.  There  was  a  noise  as 
of  many  waters.  Then  the  monsters  swept 
away  into  the  land  of  darkness  beyond,  where 
nothing  was  distinguishable,  where  there  was 
no  measurement  of  time  or  space.  Again 
the  granite  land  was  lone  and  silent,  its  gray 
immovableness  disturbed  only  by  the  swing 
ing  gate  of  swords,  which  streaked  the  rocks 
with  floating  ribbons  of  light. 


[1431 


,/ 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

T^l  7"E  were  sitting  upon  the  terrace  of 

*  »  Chateau  Chateauroux  in  the  early 
evening  —  the  old  Comtesse  M—  — , 
Mischna  Stepanoff,  and  myself.  It  was 
the  time  of  the  first  soft  warmth  of  spring. 
Two  blossoming  fruit  trees  beside  us  were 
sweet  ghosts  in  the  early  night.  About 
them  white  butterflies  fluttered. 

In  the  west  there  were  great  piled  clouds 
edged  with  a  pink  as  rare  and  as  wonderful 
as  that  which  Watteau  created  for  his  frail 
creatures  of  joy.  And  this  pink  was  reflected 
in  soft  broken  ribbons  in  the  gently  moving 
surface  of  the  Loire. 

"What  a  night  for  love!"  sighed  Mischna 
Stepanoff,  in  whose  life  the  passion  had 
played  no  unimportant  part. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "love  and  youth  and 
spring;  they  are  earth's  immortal  trinity." 
[144] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

"  That  reminds  me  of  a  story  —  a  true 
story  —  of  spring  and  youth  and  love," 
sighed  reminiscently  the  old  Comtesse,  who 
had  been  a  famous  beauty  in  her  day. 

"Tell  it  to  us,"  urged  Mischna  Stepanoff. 
"Next  to  being  in  love  oneself  is  the  pleas 
ure  of  listening  to  the  stories  of  other  people 
who  have  been  in  love." 

"But  I  feel  that  I  cannot  do  justice  to  it," 
objected  the  old  Comtesse.  "It  is  a  story  for 
the  pen  of  Maupassant,  who  wrote  of  the  tress 
of  hair.  It  might  have  been  included  among 
the  pagan  and  Oriental  dreams  of  Gautier, 
or  such  fragile  and  dainty  reminiscences  of 
youth  as  De  Nerval  occasionally  indulged  in. 
What  could  I  do  with  a  fancy  like  that?" 

"Tell  it,  anyway,"  we  insisted. 

"Well,  what  I  lack,  your  own  greater 
imaginative  skill  must  supply,"  —  smiling 
and  waving  deprecatingly  toward  us  a  tiny 
jeweled  hand. 

"It  is  the  strangest,  the  most  interesting 
story  in  the  world.    And  it  is  true. 
[145] 


888888888888888888888888888888888388883 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

888888888888383883888388888888883388888 

"Over  there  where  the  hills  step  aside  to 
make  room  for  the  passing  of  the  Loire,  is 
the  ruin  of  a  convent  which  you  have  prob 
ably  noticed.  In  my  youth  it  was  inhab 
ited  by  Les  Soeurs  Blanches,  a  well-conducted 
and  aristocratic  order  of  nuns,  who  edu 
cated  the  daughters  of  the  old  noblesse. 

"One  day  I  paid  a  visit  there  and  for  the 
first  time  saw  Sister  Seraphine.  She  was 
about  eighteen  then,  I  should  judge,  al 
though  she  had  already  taken  the  final 
vows.  I  was  at  once  attracted  by  her  face 
and  her  strange  beauty.  The  upper  part  of 
the  face  —  the  brow,  the  eyes,  the  nose  — 
were  those  of  an  ascetic,  a  dreamer,  an  in 
tellectual.  The  brow  was  nobly  formed 
and  broad;  the  nose  chastely  chiseled  and 
modeled  to  an  artist's  taste;  and  the  eyes 
were  the  spiritual  gray-blue  of  the  mystic. 
The  eyes  were  very  beautiful,  too  —  mistily 
humid,  like  the  valley  of  our  Loire  here  on  a 
morning  of  spring. 

"  But  the  mouth !  How  can  I  tell  you  what 
[146] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 
esssesseeeeeeseeseegeeesseeeeeeeesseeas 

it  was  like!  There  will  never  be  another  in 
the  world  like  it.  In  its  color  alone  there 
were  hidden  all  the  sins  of  earth.  Such  a 
color  might  have  been  born  from  the  con 
flagration  of  a  world,  or  in  the  feverish 
brain  of  some  sightless  dreamer.  In  its 
curves  there  was  all  the  resistless  languor 
of  a  mediaeval  mondaine,  or  a  voluptuous 
Roman  woman  who  had  idled  in  the  villas 
of  Baise.  Imagine,  if  you  will,  such  a  mouth 
beneath  that  ascetic  brow !  It  was  the  cause 
of  her  undoing,  too  —  and  her  ruin. 

"It  contradicted  the  rest  of  her  face  so 
sharply  that  it  was  as  if  she  werertwo  per 
sons  in  one.j  It  threw  the  beholder  into  a 
sort  of  stupefaction.  It  made  him  feel  as  if 
he  had  stumbled  awkwardly  upon  some  un 
guarded  secret.  It  was  that  rarest  of  all 
features  —  a  perfect  mouth!  And  yet,  per 
chance,  I  think  its  perfection  was  a  trifle 
over-accented.  It  was,  I  think,  a  shade  too 
red,  too  alluring,  too  sensuous.  It  was  a 
veritable  Cupid's  bow  set  about  with  mock- 
[147] 


sse&seeeeseeeesseeeeeeeeeeesesessessees 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 
eseseeesesesse&esseessesseessesegsseess 

ing  dimples  that  changed  like  light  on  the 
mobile  surface  of  the  Loire. 

"No  one  could  have  known  less  of  the 
world  than  Sister  Seraphine.  She  had  been 
placed  with  Les  Sceurs  Blanches  when  she 
was  four  years  old.  And  she  had  never  once 
left  their  sheltering  care.  She  was  of  noble 
blood,  too,  although  the  bar  sinister  black 
ened  her  birth  record.  On  her  father's  side, 
it  was  whispered,  she  came  of  that  royal 
blood  of  old  France  that  had  never  known 
the  meaning  of  fear.  And  her  mother  was 
the  gay  Comtesse  of  Marny. 

"Now  in  all  her  young  life  Sister  Sera 
phine  had  never  seen  a  man  except  the  village 
priests  and  those  who  sat  on  Sundays  be 
yond  the  grating  in  the  church.  Think  of 
it!  Can  you  even  imagine  such  a  condition! 
Every  holiday  and  fete  day  before  her  final 
vows  were  taken,  plans  had  been  made  to 
give  her  an  outing  in  the  great  world,  to  in 
troduce  her  to  that  society  to  which  by 
birth  she  belonged.  But,  some  way  or  other, 
[148] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 
each  time  the  plans  miscarried.  Some  other 
person's  welfare  and  happiness  intervened, 
had  to  be  considered  first.  The  result  was 
that  she  had  never  left  the  convent  walls. 

"Shortly  after  this  first  visit  of  mine,  the 
Duchesse  de  St.  Loisy  presented  to  the  con 
vent  two  long  mirrors  for  the  reception  room. 
About  this  same  time  Sister  Seraphine  was 
put  in  charge  of  the  room  to  receive  guests 
and  the  relatives  of  the  jeunes  demoiselles 
on  visiting  days.  Callers  at  the  convent  were 
not  very  frequent  in  those  days.  Traveling 
facilities  were  not  what  they  have  come  to 
be  since,  so  Sister  Seraphine  was  left  alone 
for  hours  in  the  great  room. 

"  Here  she  acquired  the  habit  of  looking  at 
herself  in  one  of  the  mirrors.  At  first  eyes 
stared  blankly  back  at  eyes.  She  could  not 
see  herself.  It  is  difficult,  always,  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  oneself.  That  to  me,  Mischna 
Stepanoff,  has  been  one  of  the  pleasures  of 
living  —  to  find  within  me  things  that  I  did 
not  dream  were  there.  Sister  Seraphine  after 
[  149] 


333388833888333338838883383883883388333 
SISTER  SERAPHINE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

a  while  discovered  her  mouth.  She  was  sur 
prised,  as  you  may  imagine.  It  was  as  if  it 
were  the  mouth  of  some  strange  unknown 
person  who  dwelled  within  her.  It  was  — 
the  other  —  made  visible ! 

"Soon  she  sensed,  rather  than  reasoned, 
that  it  was  in  harmony  with  the  fragrant 
creative  spring  outside;  that  she  was  part 
of  an  universal  nature  that  lived  and  laughed. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  even  in  repose  her 
mouth  laughed.  It  was  like  the  pagan  sun 
shine,  which  always  laughed.  She  became 
interested  in  her  mouth.  She  became  fasci 
nated  with  the  many  things  that  it  expressed, 
with  its  color,  its  flexibility,  and  its  capac 
ity  for  joyous  sensation,  if  by  chance  she 
touched  it  to  a  flower. 

"One  night,  just  before  she  closed  and 
left  the  great  room  for  the  night,  she  leaned 
long  by  the  mirror's  edge  looking  up  at  the 
stars  through  a  near-by  window.  They  were 
merry  that  night,  the  stars.  It  was  spring, 
which  is  youth  in  the  world,  and  they 
[150] 


\ 


®33S83S88g833SS88333SSSSS3S333S333S3®33 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 
eeegssesseseeeseeeesseseeseeeseseseesss 

laughed.  They  laughed  so  gayly,  so  allur 
ingly,  that  she  turned  impulsively  and  kissed 
her  own  mouth  in  the  mirror. 

"For  days  after  this  Sister  Seraphine  was 
meditative  and  beyond  her  habit  thoughtful. 
She  could  not  look  at  the  mirrors.  Her  cheeks 
flushed  with  shame.  She  felt  disgraced  and 
dishonored.  Every  time  she  was  obliged 
to  pass  by  the  great  mirrors,  she  carefully 
turned  her  eyes  away. 

"  During  these  days  it  seemed  as  if  Spring, 
like  a  bandit,  broke  through  the  ponderous 
convent  walls.  Its  murmur  and  its  mystery 
and  its  fragrance  and  its  buoyant  life  were 
everywhere.  They  poured  invisibly  through 
the  somber,  painted  windows.  They  swept 
enticingly  down  the  long  bare  halls.  All 
night  they  sang  beneath  the  casements  of 
the  penitential  chambers.  They  awoke 
with  the  first  penetrating  sweetness  of  the 
dawn. 

"Each   morning,   in   the   opening  flower 
cups,  Sister  Seraphine  found  other  mouths 
[151] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 
seeseeeeeseeseeseeseeesseeeeeseseeesees 

that  looked  like  hers.  She  saw  there  the 
same  desirous,  satiny  lips.  The  same  bril 
liant  color  burned  upon  them,  the  same 
dewy  ripeness.  One  night,  unable  to  sleep, 
so  many  and  so  mighty  were  the  voices  that 
called  her,  she  got  up  softly  and  tiptoed  down 
the  long  bare  corridors  to  the  reception  room. 
It  was  not  ever  really  night  anywhere  that 
spring,  it  seems  to  me  as  I  recall  it.  The 
frail  gray  shadows  of  summer  made  instead 
a  sort  of  semi-day. 

"She  knelt  down  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
one  of  the  mirrors.  There  she  saw  a  white 
face  under  an  aureole  of  short  gold  hair,  two 
eyes  that  shone  like  stars,  and  a  mouth  that 
was  red  as  a  wound.  Again  she  kissed  it. 
When  she  crept  back  to  her  room,  she  found 
it  lonelier  than  before.  Something,  she 
knew  not  what,  was  missing.  The  world 
was  empty.  Some  joy  had  gone  out  of  life. 

"The  next  day  she  asked  for  permission  to 
see  Father  Richards,  the  aged  priest  of  the 
parish. 

[152] 


SISTER  SERAPHINE 


"Father,'  she  began,  'you  know  that  I 
have  never  left  the  convent  walls,  do  you 
not?' 

'Yes,  my  daughter.' 

'You  know  that  I  have  known  no  other 
home.' 

'Yes,  my  daughter.' 

:'That  I  have  read  only  my  breviary  and 
the  books  of  the  saints.    And  yet,  Father,  I 
have  sinned,  sinned  grievously  —  ' 
'  '  How,  my  daughter?  ' 
'  '  I  have  kissed  —  ' 
"'Kissed?' 

'Yes,  Father.     I  have  kissed  a  mouth, 

because  I  wanted  to;  because  it  was  red  and 

sweet,  like  the  flowers  outside  in  the  spring.' 

'  What  !    You  say  -      Explain,  my  daugh 

ter!'    said  the  aged  priest,  greatly  puzzled. 

"I   kissed   my   own   mouth,   Father.      I 

kissed  it  in  the  mirror,  not  once,  Father, 

but  twice.    And  I  am  not  sorry.    It  gave  me 

pleasure,  Father.     Were  not  mouths  made 

to  kiss?     And  the  pleasure  was   not   that 

[153] 


^ 


SISTER  SERAPHINE 


which  I  have  felt  when  I  kissed  the  white 
feet  of  the  Virgin.  And  I  am  not  sorry, 
Father.' 

"It  is  your  youth,  my  daughter;  spring, 
too,  in  the  blood.  You  must  pray  and  fast 
—  especially  fast.  That  will  subdue  evil.  ' 

"'  No,  Father.  I  think  differently.  I  will 
not.  I  am  going  away.  The  great  mirrors 
in  the  drawing-room  there  have  shown  me 
my  mouth,  Father.  And  it  has  told  me  of 
another  life  —  a  life  to  which  I  belong  !  Do 
you  know  what  made  it  so  red,  so  wonderful, 
so  faultless,  Father,  this  mouth  of  mine?  It 
was  the  splendid,  free,  pleasure-loving,  tem 
pestuous  lives  that  they  lived  who  made  me. 
There  is  not  in  this  mouth  of  mine  one  ser 
vile  curve,  one  penitential  or  humiliating 
line,  one  touch  of  pleading  or  regret.  /Al 
though  I  have  not  seen  them,  I  know  that 
it  must  have  been  a  great  race  that  bore  me. 
They  did  not  even  leave  me  a  name  to  which 
I  have  a  just  claim.  But  right  here,  on  my 
mouth,  Father,  they  set  the  red  seal  of  their 
[154] 


88888883S38888338338338833S33333383S333 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

pleasures,  their  aristocratic  arrogance,  their 
fearlessness,  and  their  power. 

"I  can  see  the  life  they  lived!  I  can  see 
it  all  —  through  the  days  and  the  nights  and 
the  years.  A  regal  life  it  was,  in  great  moat- 
encircled  castles,  amid  clash  of  steel,  cries  of 
joy  and  triumph  and  music  and  the  madness 
of  power. 

"I  can  see  the  white  glorious  faces  of 
the  women  they  loved,  framed  in  fluttering 
and  triumphant  banners. 

'  Think  of  the  kisses  given  by  brave  men 
to  the  lips  of  beautiful  women!  Think  of 
the  banquets  and  the  feasting  in  great  halls, 
where  a  thousand  candles  flickered  over 
satins  and  silks  and  gems  and  laces  and 
smooth  shoulders  and  lustrous  hair!  Think 
of  the  wine  they  drank  in  those  long,  long 
nights  of  revelry  —  wine  that  had  treasured 
up  and  kept  the  sweetness  of  a  thousand 
springs;  think  of  the  songs,  the  laughter, 
the  dance,  the  jests!  Think  of  the  resound 
ing  hunt  across  fields  vivid  with  spring;  the 
[155] 


S83S338S83833888S883383S888888383S88838 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 

338338883883S8883S8S88388888S8S88888838 
inspiriting  call  of  the  horns,  the  tossing  of 
plumes,  the  eyes  afire  with  joy! 

'Think  of  their  daring  and  their  high 
hearted  days  when  they  cheerfully  placed 
life  in  the  balance,  to  weigh  against  a  kiss! 
Think  of  the  strength  that  took  whatsoever 
it  wanted,  regardless  of  results;  that  flung 
defiance  in  the  face  of  Fate! 

; '  This  mouth,  Father,  told  all  this  to  me. 
This  mouth  is  their  message  to  me. 

"Do    you    know    what    has    happened, 
Father?    The  strangest,  the  most  unbeliev 
able,   the   most   preposterous   thing   in   the 
world!     I  have  been  seduced  by  my  own 
mouth!    A  miracle!    A  miracle  of  earth,  not 
of  heaven,  Father  —  by  my  own  mouth ! 
"'I  am  going  away,  too,  Father,  now.' 
"And  right  there,  before  the  feeble  and 
astonished  old  man,  she  tore  off  her  hood 
and  the  bindings  of  her  brow,  and  went  out 
into  the  spring  that  was  waiting  for  her  — 
across  the  fields,  and  away.     Think  of   the 
audacity,  the  power  of  decision,  the  strong, 
[156] 


eeeeeeeesseseeeseseee&seeeesseseesssese 

SISTER  SERAPHINE 
seeeessseesesseseeseeeeeeseeeeeeseeesss 

quick-working  will  that  nothing  could 
enfeeble ! 

:' You  have  both  heard  of  Madame  X , 

have  you  not,  who  had  such  a  genius  for  life 
and  luxury,  whose  sables  the  Tzaritza  envied, 
who  had  at  her  feet  half  the  desirable  men 
of  France?  She  was  Sister  Seraphine." 

"Every  one  has  a  right  to  happiness, 
do  you  not  think  so?"  exclaimed  Mischna 
Stepanoff,  the  joy  of  her  own  lost  youth 
leaping  to  her  eyes. 


157 


THE  SACRED  RELICS  OF  SAINT 
EUTHYMIUS 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury  there  was  built,  on  the  westward- 
fronting  coast  of  Istria,  a  pleasure  palace. 
The  builder,  Paul,  Count  of  Radknothy, 
was  a  Hungarian  nobleman  of  wealth  and 
power,  who  had  traveled  widely  and  formed 
his  taste  upon  the  best  models  of  the  day. 

On  his  frequent  journeys  he  tarried  often- 
est  in  Venice.  The  rich  and  luxurious  city 
held  for  him  the  charm  it  has  never  failed 
to  hold  for  the  people  of  the  North. 

Here  he  met  La  Fiorita,  a  dancer  re 
nowned  for  her  beauty.  She  was  his  senior 
by  a  number  of  years  and  a  woman  of  un 
savory  reputation.  The  story  of  her  amours, 
which  had  been  many,  sounded  like  a  page 
from  Masuccio,  and  had  been  the  talk  of 
Italy.  She  had  been  persona  grata  with 
[158] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

88S38838S8833£833S8SS3S8333®g838SS3S338 

the  nobles  of  that  licentious  age.  She  had 
ruled  as  temporary  mistress  of  many  a 
summer  palace  hidden  away  among  the 
Italian  hills.  For  Count  Radknothy  she 
had  the  fascination  which  women  of  mature 
years  have  had  for  younger  men.  He 
married  her  and  took  her  away  to  his  Is- 
trian  home. 

She  was  glad  of  this  lucky  stroke  of  for 
tune.  She  realized  that,  considering  the 
life  she  had  led,  her  beauty  could  not  last 
in  its  perfection. 

In  the  second  year  after  her  marriage, 
shortly  before  the  time  of  her  first  confine 
ment,  she  was  miraculously  saved  from 
death  at  the  hands  of  an  assassin  by  a 
Carthusian  nun,  whom  the  blow  struck. 
The  assassin,  who  paid  for  the  attempt 
with  his  life,  was  a  follower  of  her  old 
days,  hi  whose  heart  her  beauty  had  been 
more  than  a  fancy. 

This  escape  from  death  back  into  the 
luxurious  life  she  had  never  ceased  to  look 
[159J 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

SACRED  RELICS  or  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
eeseeeseeesesseeeseeeeseseesseseeeeeess 

upon  as  the  kindness  of  Providence,  aroused 
the  religious  fanaticism  that  slumbers  in 
the  Italian  soul.  In  return,  she  made  a 
vow  that  the  unborn  child  should  be  sacred 
to  the  church.  Later,  a  daughter  was  born 
to  Count  and  Countess  Radknothy,  who 
was  christened  Elsbeth. 

Overjoyed  at  her  safe  delivery,  chastened 
in  mind  by  the  favors  of  Heaven,  the  Count 
ess  decided  that  the  child  should  take  the 
veil  in  a  convent  of  the  Silent  Sisters.  Then 
she  felt  that  she  had  atoned  for  the  sins  of 
her  youth.  Accordingly,  when  little  Els 
beth  was  twelve  years  old,  she  was  sent  to 
the  Hungarian  Convent  of  St.  Euthymius. 

This  convent,  which  had  once  been  the 
war-castle  of  a  feudal  lord,  and  which  bore 
witness  to  its  past  in  its  stern  and  forbid 
ding  exterior,  was  situated  in  northwestern 
Hungary,  just  south  of  the  Little  Car 
pathians,  and  surrounded  by  their  gloomy 
forests.  It  stood  on  an  elevation.  On  the 
north  a  lake  lay,  whose  outlet  was  the 
[1601 


888888838888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

shallow  Ipoly,  which  to  southward  joins  the 
Danube.  It  was  a  hilly,  thinly  populated 
country  of  ancient  mansions  separated  from 
each  other  by  miles  of  woodland. 

From  the  convent  but  one  building  was 
visible,  the  family  chapel  of  the  Rakoczi,  a 
family  of  royal  lineage  whose  male  members 
had  led  the  wars  for  Hungarian  independ 
ence.  The  castle  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  chapel  and  its  rear  was  toward  the  lake. 
On  the  north  side  of  the  convent  there  was 
but  one  window.  From  this  the  warlike 
baron  used  to  watch  his  enemies  approach. 
Beneath  the  window,  clinging  to  the  wall, 
was  a  staircase.  This  was  the  room  which 
was  assigned  to  Elsbeth. 

Notwithstanding  her  childish  immaturity, 
it  was  evident  that  she  had  inherited  her 
mother's  blond  beauty,  which,  in  her  case, 
was  made  more  brilliant  by  the  father's 
Hungarian  blood.  During  the  two  years 
that  had  preceded  her  daughter's  birth,  La 
Fiorita  had  luxuriated  in  her  Istrian  palace. 
[1611 


888388888388888388888833838833833838883 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

Here,  freed  from  the  efforts  of  a  dancer's  life, 
and  cherished  by  a  love  in  the  flower  of  its 
youth,  her  beauty  had  reached  its  perfec 
tion.  In  addition,  little  Elsbeth  had  in 
herited  her  mother's  abundant  vitality  and 
her  taste  for  music  and  dancing. 

Because  of  the  child's  love  of  music  and 
the  noble  family  to  which  she  belonged, 
the  rules  of  St.  Euthymius  were  lifted,  and 
she  was  permitted  to  take  her  lute  with  her. 
La  Fiorita  consoled  herself  with  the  thought 
that  the  lute  would  take  the  place  of  con 
versation,  which  was  forbidden.  With  this 
solicitude  she  dismissed  the  subject.  She 
felt  that  she  had  purchased  the  forgiveness 
of  Heaven  and  gave  herself  over  unrestrain 
edly  to  the  life  of  pleasure  she  loved. 

It  was  autumn  when  Elsbeth  reached  St. 
Euthymius.  The  repellent  exterior  of  the 
convent-fortress  was  softened  by  the  rich 
ness  of  the  season.  Autumn  once  seen 
among  the  mountains  of  Hungary  is  some 
thing  always  to  remember.  A  languid 
[162] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

radiance  enfolds  the  landscape.  The  stern 
Carpathians  float  in  a  mist  of  blue,  through 
which  white,  fragile  birches  and  fiery  maples 
gleam.  The  forests  and  the  mountains  are 
reflected  in  the  water.  Along  the  roads 
ferns  expand  into  fans  of  gold.  The  wood 
lands  exhale  an  aromatic  perfume. 

The  witchery  of  the  season  dulled  the 
first  pain  of  separation.  But  when  the 
rains  of  November  scattered  the  leaves,  and 
the  wind  sang  about  the  lonely  towers  and 
echoed  down  the  bare  corridors,  she  cried 
like  a  little  child  to  go  home.  The  sisters' 
efforts  to  comfort  her  were  vain.  Equally 
vain  were  their  attempts  to  divert  her  mind 
with  lessons  and  prayer.  She  still  cried  to 
go  home. 

There  was  no  devotional  chord  in  her 
nature  to  respond  to  the  good  sisters'  teach 
ings.  They  were  like  a  voice  calling  in  a 
land  where  no  one  lives.  When  winter  came, 
the  entire  world  was  black  and  white. 
Without,  the  snow  and  the  bare  trees  —  or 
[163] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  or  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 
the  blacker  pines  and  firs;  within,  white, 
echoing  rooms,  where  silent,  black-clad  figures 
moved.  The  sight  filled  her  with  grief,  and 
by  contrast  called  to  mind  her  bright- 
gowned,  beautiful  mother. 

When  spring  came,  she  was  so  pale  and 
thin  that  the  kind  sisters  would  have  sent 
word  of  her  condition  to  her  parents,  had 
it  not  been  expressly  stated  that  no  word 
was  to  be  sent  to  disturb  the  peace  of  the 
Istrian  home. 

When  she  was  seventeen,  the  sisters  de 
cided  that  she  was  sufficiently  instructed  in 
the  duties  of  the  order  to  be  made  a  member. 
Obediently  she  took  the  veil  and  the  vow 
of  silence.  This  occasioned  no  fresh  grief, 
since  it  could  not  interfere  with  her  source 
of  happiness  —  her  dreams. 

In  the  spring  of  the  following  year, 
shortly  after  vespers,  when  she  was  in  her 
room  alone,  she  heard  some  one  playing 
upon  a  lute  a  melody  of  enchanting  rhythm. 
Hastily  she  unfastened  the  window  square. 
[164J 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

In  the  melody  floated,  with  the  breath  of 
the  soft  spring  night.  It  came  from  the 
lake.  She  vibrated  pleasurably  to  it.  In  it 
were  poured  out  the  longing  heart  of  youth 
and  the  soft  allurements  of  love.  Instinc 
tively  she  threw  off  the  cloak  and  hood. 
She  unclasped  the  black  mantle  ate  her 
throat.  In  her  eyes,  upon  her  face,  glowed 
that  look  of  inspired  joy  with  which  La 
Fiorita  had  held  her  admirers.  Snatching 
the  lute  from  the  wall,  she  repeated  the 
melody  and  improvised  an  answer.  The 
unknown  musician  understood  and  followed 
her  lead.  Thus  they  conversed  for  an  hour 
through  the  medium  of  music. 

The  next  morning  Elsbeth  was  summoned 
to  the  Superior.  Some  of  the  sisters  said 
that  they  had  heard  music  in  the  night 
coming  from  her  room,  and  of  a  kind  not 
suitable  for  convent  walls.  Had  not  years 
of  silence  lamed  their  tongues  and  made 
them  incapable  of  utterance,  they  would 
have  been  eloquent  in  their  description  of 
[165] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888588888888888888888888888888888888 
the  melodies  they  had  heard.  As  it  was,  they 
insisted  vehemently  upon  their  wickedness. 

"My  daughter,"  said  the  Superior,  "since 
this  is  the  first  complaint  against  you,  you 
shall  go  unpunished.  We  have  shown  for 
bearance  because  of  your  youth.  Now 
that  you  are  older,  and  have  become  one 
of  us  permanently,  it  is  right  that  you 
should  obey  the  rules  and  uphold  them. 
In  the  future  play  sacred  music,  or  such  as 
befits  the  vows  you  have  taken."  With 
this  the  Superior  dismissed  her. 

It  was  later  that  night  when  the  lute 
called  beneath  her  window.  Her  answer 
was  a  sharp  note  of  warning.  The  unseen 
musician  understood.  When  again  he  touched 
the  strings,  it  was  midnight,  and  the  shy 
summer  stars  had  been  hours  a-twinkle. 
He  played  the  same  alluring  cantilena,  but 
softly,  tenderly,  as  if  meant  for  a  loved 
one's  ears  alone.  He  swept  the  strings  so 
delicately  it  was  but  a  breath  of  musical 
fragrance  upon  the  night. 
[166] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


Elsbeth  trembled.  The  blood  coursed 
pleasurably  through  her  veins.  Her  soul 
expanded  with  joy.  Fear  was  forgotten. 
She  thought  only  of  the  unseen  one  upon 
the  lake  who  called  to  her. 

He  had  understood  what  she  said  the 
night  before.  He  had  come  again.  She 
took  her  lute  and  replied  clearly  and  dar 
ingly.  Then  again  the  soft  melodic  whisper 
floated  up  from  the  water.  Her  answer  was 
firm  and  triumphant,  shrilling  on  one  sus 
tained  crystal  note  of  longing.  This  pas 
sionate  appeal  for  life,  for  freedom,  touched 
the  hearer's  heart,  as  the  murmurous  caress 
which  followed  proved. 

Six  years  had  passed  since  any  one  had 
spoken  to  her  like  that,  six  silent  years  of 
convent  life.  She  was  like  one  buried  alive, 
calling  out  to  the  warm,  sweet  world  on 
the  other  side  of  the  grave.  Her  lute  told 
this  in  a  song  of  unrest. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  solemn  meeting 
of  the  sisters  in  the  great  audience  hall  of 
[1671 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

St.  Euthymius.  Sister  Seraphita  had  heard 
the  music.  She  had  awakened  the  others, 
who,  in  their  turn,  awakened  the  Mother 
Superior.  Never  had  their  unworldly  ears 
heard  sounds  like  these.  They  plunged 
them  into  an  alien  world,  where  they  trem 
bled.  They  troubled  their  minds  with  the 
tone-pictures  they  flashed  upon  the  senses. 
The  music  concealed  a  persistent  sugges 
tion  that  there  are  nobler  things  than  a  life 
of  prayer  and  penance.  It  brought  back 
memories  of  forgotten  days.  It  touched 
their  arid  hearts  to  strange  tremors.  It 
sent  a-flutter  insistent  voices  as  the  sea 
sends  abroad  upon  the  wind  the  story  of  its 
secret  longing.  It  gave  transient  energy  to 
dead  instincts.  It  set  vibrating  thoughts 
inimical  to  convent  life.  The  stupidest 
among  them  felt  this,  and  they  agreed  that 
it  must  be  stopped. 

In  addition,  it  had  been  whispered  that 
it  sounded  as  if  two  lutes  were  being  played, 
instead  of  one.     Of  course,  they  knew  that 
[168] 


388888833383883888838383333388838883333 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMITJS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

that  was  impossible.  No  one  could  gain 
entrance  to  the  convent.  If  they  did  hear 
two  lutes,  who  was  it  who  played  the  other 
one? 

A  look  of  awful  comprehension  brightened 
their  dull  old  eyes.  It  was  marvelous  play 
ing,  too.  They  remembered  that.  Even  the 
Superior  said  that  she  had  not  heard  its 
equal.  No  mortal  fingers  swept  that  other 
lute.  No  mortal  fingers  could  so  fill  the 
castle  with  resonance.  There  were  two 
lutes!  Who  played  the  other?  It  was 
Satan  who  did  it  —  Satan  and  none  other ! 

Then  the  Superior  recalled  what  she  had 
heard  of  the  music  and  dancing  madness 
that  had  taken  possession  of  the  nuns  of 
the  south  of  France  in  the  early  years  of 
the  church.  How  it  had  been  proved  to  be 
the  work  of  Satan  and  how  the  evil  spirit 
had  been  exorcised.  Abbe  X had  writ 
ten  a  book  about  it.  After  discussing  the 
subject,  Elsbeth  was  sent  for. 

"My  dear  daughter,"  began  the  Superior, 
[169J 


ese&eeseeseseeeeessee&sessssesseesessse 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
eeeeeeeeseeeseessssseeessseeeesseeseess 

"it  grieved  me  to  learn  of  your  disobedience. 
I,  together  with  the  sisters,  have  decided 
that  forfeiture  of  the  lute  is  a  just  punish 
ment.  Sister  Seraphita  may  now  bring  it 
to  my  room  and  hang  it  upon  the  wall. 
As  for  you,  my  daughter,  I  recommend 
the  prayers  for  the  penitent."  Then  she 
rose,  signifying  that  the  session  was  at  an 
end. 

Elsbeth  said  nothing.  Her  mind  was  so 
filled  by  the  occurrences  of  the  past  days 
that  the  meaning  barely  reached  her. 

That  night  the  melody  floated  up  to 
where  she  stood  waiting,  just  as  the  sickle 
of  the  moon  swung  to  a  level  with  the  black 
tree-tops. 

How  could  she  answer  now?  Hastily  she 
unfastened  the  window.  Then  she  remem 
bered  a  lace  handkerchief  belonging  to  her 
mother,  which  she  picked  up  the  day  they 
took  her  away.  It  was  filmy  and  light.  It 
would  float  upon  the  water.  He  would  see 
it  fluttering  down.  In  one  corner  was  em- 
[170] 


833883333883833338333383833833333333333 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
S33833838S383838S3383338S33333333833388 

broidered,  in  the  colored  needlework  of  the 
day,  the  crest  of  the  house  of  Radknothy. 

The  changed  music  that  came  told  her 
that  he  had  caught  the  handkerchief.  He 
understood  the  message.  In  the  answering 
tones  there  was  something  deferential. 

Then  he  played  the  melody  of  the  first 
night,  modulating  it  masterfully,  and  using 
the  theme  as  the  basic  idea  for  many  a 
sweetly  extemporized  caprice.  As  she  stood 
alone  in  the  dim  cell  listening,  while  the 
warm  spring  night  caressed  the  short,  bright 
curls  upon  her  head,  it  thrilled  her  with  a 
joy  that  was  akin  to  pain.  It  was  like  the 
memory  of  something  that  had  vanished  - 
a  tragic  past  that  had  swept  her  away 
upon  billows  of  flame.  It  was  the  sense- 
memory  of  a  past  whose  incidents  she 
could  not  recall,  but  whose  fervor  flashed 
upon  her. 

The  sisters  heard  the  music.    One  by  one, 
softly,  they  crept  to  the  Mother  Superior's 
door  to  see  if  she  were  awake.     There  she 
[1711 


eeeegseeeseeeeeeeeseesessseeesessssseee. 
SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


sat,  a  terrified,  trembling  old  figure,  her 
eyes  staring  at  the  lute  upon  the  wall,  while 
her  pale  lips  murmured  a  prayer.  One  by 
one  they  peered  in  to  make  sure  that  the 
lute  was  really  there,  hanging  motionless 
upon  the  wall.  Yet  its  music  echoed  down 
the  long  corridors  and  floated  in  at  the 
windows.  A  ghastly  procession  they  made! 
Shrunken  and  hollow  of  cheek,  toothless, 
yellow  and  wrinkled  of  face!  The  candles 
silhouetted  sharply  and  distorted  their  bald 
and  trembling  heads. 

Yes,  there  was  the  lute,  motionless,  just 
where  Sister  Seraphita  had  hung  it.  Yet 
they  could  hear  its  music.  What  a  horrible 
thing!  To  listen  to  music  made  by  a  lute 
hung  out  of  reach  upon  a  wall!  Their 
shrunken  chins  and  toothless  lips  trem 
bled.  Their  knees  knocked  together.  It 
was  all  their  old,  weak  hands  could  do  to 
hold  the  candles. 

Here  was  proof  of  the  work  of  the  evil 
spirit.  Every  sister  in  the  convent  was  a 
[172J 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
eeeesesseeeseeeeeeeseeseseesaeeseeasees 

witness.  Perhaps  it  was  Satan  himself  who 
swept  the  strings.  In  addition,  they  had 
heard  that  the  coming  of  an  evil  spirit  is 
accompanied  by  a  breath  of  cool  air  or  a 
freshening  breeze.  Whenever  the  wind  came 
stronger,  the  music  was  noticeably  louder. 
That  was  another  proof. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  were  given 
over  to  prayer.  But  each  night  the  same 
dreadful  thing  occurred,  the  same  luxurious 
and  sinful  melody  came  floating  on  the 
midnight.  The  aged  sisters  were  distracted. 
They  were  grieved,  too.  No  scandal  had 
ever  touched  St.  Euthymius. 

On  the  fourth  day  they  met   in    solemn 

council,  to  which  Elsbeth  was  summoned, 

in  order  to  be  questioned.     She  said  that 

each  night,  in  accordance  with  the  Superior's 

orders,    she   had    gone   early   to    bed    after 

repeating  thrice  the  prayers  for  the  penitent. 

Quickly  she  fell  asleep.     Then  she  dreamed 

-  but  so  vividly  that  the  following  day  she 

was  unable  to  tell  the  dream   from  reality 

[1731 


888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

—  that  the  Mother  Superior  came  to  her 
door,  knocked  softly,  opened  it  and  held 
out  the  lute.  She  took  it  and  improvised 
upon  it  the  rest  of  the  night.  Softly  then 
again  the  knocking  came,  the  Superior 
opened  the  door,  took  the  lute  and  went 
away.  Each  night  she  dreamed  the  same 
dream.  And  each  morning  she  found  her 
door  as  she  had  left  it. 

On  hearing  this  the  good  sisters  were 
more  puzzled  than  ever.  One  thing,  how 
ever,  was  certain.  Elsbeth  was  the  medium 
through  which  the  evil  spirit  gained  entrance. 
Through  her  he  was  trying  to  draw  the 
Mother  Superior  into  his  toils,  and  thus 
work  the  ruin  of  the  convent. 

After  sifting  conflicting  opinions,  they  de 
cided  that  she  should  be  confined  within  her 
room  for  a  month.  During  that  time  she 
was  not  to  see  nor  hold  converse  with  any 
one.  Food  and  drink  would  be  placed  at 
her  door  at  regular  intervals. 

The  first  days  of  confinement  were  lonely. 
[174] 


838888888888838333833888338888338833338 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888383338388388388888388838888388883833 

The  lute  was  gone.  There  was  nothing  for 
company.  Nor  did  the  first  week  of  con 
finement  have  any  effect  upon  exorcising 
the  demon.  Each  night  the  trembling  old 
women  gathered  in  the  Superior's  room  to 
watch  with  terrified  eyes  while  the  motion 
less  lute  made  music. 

Elsbeth's  only  amusement  was  to  stand 
on  tiptoe  and  look  out  through  the  swing 
ing  square  of  the  window.  It  was  so  high 
that  she  could  not  see  anything  immediately 
below.  One  day  while  she  was  standing  on 
tiptoe  peering  out,  her  knees,  trembling 
with  the  strain,  struck  a  projection  of  the 
grooved  wood,  and  she  felt  the  wall  yield 
as  if  a  door  were  there. 

Getting  down  on  her  knees,  she  scrutin 
ized  every  curve  of  the  decorative  wood  to 
see  if  a  spring  could  be  found.  She  knew 
the  room  had  belonged  to  the  old  Baron 
who  built  the  castle,  and  that  it  was  unlike 
the  others.  Since  the  hidden  spring  —  if 
such  an  one  there  were  —  did  not  disclose 
[175] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


itself  to  the  eye,  she  determined  to  follow 
with  her  fingers  every  scroll  of  the  panel, 
pressing  evenly  upon  each  in  turn. 

About  half-way  up  to  the  lower  edge  of 
the  window,  at  about  the  height  where 
her  knees  had  been,  a  whorl  of  polished 
wood  slipped  from  sight.  The  panel  swung 
out  and  the  level  lake  lay  before  her.  Lean 
ing  out,  she  found  that  the  stairway  which 
she  had  seen  from  the  edge  of  the  water  was 
within  reach.  This  was  the  old  Baron's 
place  of  secret  exit. 

That  night,  when  the  unknown  serenader 
touched  his  lute,  she  opened  the  door, 
swung  lightly  to  the  stair  top  and  motioned 
silence.  The  listening  sisters,  who  heard  the 
music  begin,  then  cease  abruptly,  were  filled 
with  thankfulness.  After  waiting  an  hour 
and  hearing  no  recurrent  sound,  they  crept 
back  to  their  beds,  secure  in  the  thought 
that  the  exorcising  of  the  demon  had  begun. 

In  a  little  boat  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
sat  a  man  holding  a  jeweled  lute.  It  seemed 
[176] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


to  Elsbeth  that  she  had  always  known  him. 
He  looked  just  like  the  men  with  whom  she 
had  been  acquainted  for  years  in  her  dreams. 
Like  them,  he  was  dark  and  young.  Like 
them,  too,  he  was  handsome  and  had  come 
to  fetch  her  in  a  boat.  He  wore  the  costume 
of  an  Hungarian  nobleman  of  the  middle  of 
the  sixteenth  century:  a  light  blue  mantle 
fancifully  braided,  of  Polish  cut,  thrown 
coquettishly  over  one  shoulder,  called  in 
those  days  kabodion;  black  velvet  breeches, 
a  round-topped  hat  and  a  tight-fitting  dress 
coat,  such  as  were  worn  by  men  of  birth, 
called  mente.  Years  of  silence  had  thrown 
her  so  completely  upon  herself  for  com 
panionship  that  it  had  become  difficult  to 
tell  the  real  from  the  unreal.  The  one  who 
waited  in  the  boat  was  merely  a  proof  of 
the  reality  of  dreams. 

He,  on  his  part,  saw  a  girl-woman  of  mag 

nificent    proportions    coming   swiftly    down 

the  steps.     Upon  her  head  a  halo  of  little 

curls  shone  in  the  light.    Her  face  was  very 

[1771 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 
white,  but  in  her  eyes  there  was  the  look 
with  which  La  Fiorita  had  gone  to  meet 
her  lovers.  So  familiarly  did  she  hasten  to 
him  that  he  felt  himself  drawn  within  the 
magic  circle  of  her  day  dreams,  where  nothing 
was  impossible,  and  held  out  his  hands  impul 
sively  to  help  her  to  a  seat. 

Yet,  how  can  any  one  tell  in  what  other 
life  we  have  met,  how  close  the  tie  that 
bound  us,  whose  fibers  vibrate  on  in  this! 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  he  asked,  admira 
tion  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"Down  there,  around  the  bend  of  the  lake, 
where  the  sisters  cannot  hear  our  voices." 

He  bent  to  the  oars,  and  a  silver  furrow 
stretched  behind  them.  Meanwhile  Elsbeth 
looked  attentively  at  her  companion.  His 
youth  pleased  her.  He  was  the  only  one 
she  had  met  who  was  young  like  herself. 

Prince  Rakoczi  was  about  twenty-eight. 

He   had   been   married   some   years   to    an 

Italian  woman  many  years  his  senior.    The 

Princess  —  known    as   the   Princess   of   the 

[1781 


g8SSSSSSSS8SS8833SS33S3S3gSS3S3S8S33S3S 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

8SSS38S383S883388SSSSSS3338S8338SS83833 

Bloody  Heart,  because  of  a  heart  of  rubies 
which  she  invariably  wore  —  was  descended 
from  the  Italian  house  of  Montanelli.  The 
head  of  this  house  was  known  throughout 
Europe  for  the  making  of  skillful  and 
artistic  instruments  of  torture.  It  was  due 
to  her  father,  Alonzo  Montanelli,  that  in 
that  age  murder  had  reached  the  dignity  of 
a  fine  art,  and  was  accompanied  by  the 
exquisite  decorative  setting  that  befits  a 
fete.  The  name,  Montanelli,  was  password 
to  every  torture  chamber  of  Europe. 

Once  around  the  bend,  she  said:  "Where 
are  we  going?" 

"To  my  chapel  yonder." 

"Shall  we  be  alone?" 

"Quite  alone." 

"Then  I  will  play  upon  your  lute." 

:<You  shall  have  another  like  it  for  your 
self,"  he  said,  handing  it  toward  her,  while 
the  moon  found  the  heart  of  a  crimson 
stone  and  flashed  red  light  upon  his  hand. 

At  sight  of  the  richly  lighted  chapel,  her 
[1791 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

eyes  shone  like  a  little  child's  at  sight  of  a 
Christmas  tree.  So  great  was  her  capacity 
for  happiness  that  she  forgot  the  past  in 
the  pleasure  of  a  moment. 

He  led  her  into  the  chapel.  :<You  can 
not  imagine  what  I  thought  when  I  first 
saw  you.  I  thought  that  you  were  the 
original  of  a  picture  that  hangs  here.  That 
Magdalene  is  not  a  painter's  dream.  It  is 
the  portrait  of  the  woman  whom  my  father 
loved.  During  my  mother's  life  the  picture 
was  not  hung.  It  was  only  after  I  came 
into  possession  of  the  estate  that  it  was 
taken  from  its  place  of  concealment.  It  is 
La  Fiorita,  a  dancing  girl  whom  my  father 
knew  in  Venice  in  his  youth."  Looking  up, 
Elsbeth  saw  a  voluptuous  Venetian  beauty, 
whose  face  stirred  vague  memories. 

When  they  rowed  back  to  the  convent, 
the  moon  was  low  in  the  sky.  The  lake  was 
dull  and  tarnished.  In  the  tops  of  the  trees 
a  crisp  wind  shivered  that  told  of  dawn. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  Elsbeth 
[180] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


was  glad  of  her  imprisonment.  She  escaped 
the  sisters'  prying  eyes.  They  who  live  in 
solitude  are  skilled  in  reading  the  heart. 

Each  night  the  Prince  came  for  her,  and 
they  drifted  down  the  lake,  explored  its 
recesses,  improvised  upon  their  lutes  within 
the  chapel,  or  reclined  upon  the  steps  to  talk 
of  love.  In  this  way  a  month  passed  away. 

To  the  good  sisters  of  St.  Euthymius  the 
month  had  brought  comfort.  The  evil  spirit 
was  controlled  and  put  to  flight.  They 
could  sleep  in  peace,  their  timid  old  hearts 
untroubled  by  fear.  Now  the  lute  hung 
silent  upon  the  wall.  There  had  been  no 
recurrence  of  the  melody.  The  prayerful 
penance  of  Elsbeth  had  exorcised  the  demon. 

The  Superior  called  a  council.  It  was 
agreed  that  Elsbeth  should  spend  another 
month  in  prayer  and  silence.  When  the 
word  was  brought  to  her,  she  received  it 
humbly.  The  Superior's  heart  was  filled 
with  gratitude.  Her  patience  was.  bearing 
fruit. 

[1811 


S833338S3SgS833S8S383833883S33S3333SS33 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


One  night,  after  the  beginning  of  the 
second  month,  when  Elsbeth  and  Prince 
Rakoczi  entered  the  chapel,  he  rushed  to 
fasten  the  door  that  communicated  with 
the  castle. 

"Why  do  you  do  that?"  inquired  Elsbeth. 

"The  Princess  has  arrived.  Of  course 
there  is  little  danger  of  her  coming  here. 
Yet  it  is  best  to  be  safe." 

Then  they  forgot  about  her  in  their  love 
and  joy  in  each  other,  and  set  about  per 
fecting  plans  for  Elsbeth's  escape  from  the 
convent. 

"Listen,  little  one,"  the  Prince  continued, 
drawing  her  to  him,  while  the  candles 
struck  rich  colors  from  his  braided  kabodion 
and  accented  the  pallor  of  his  face.  "It  is 
arranged  for  to-morrow  night.  A  larger 
boat  and  two  oarsmen  will  come  for  us 
here.  They  will  row  us  to  the  end  of  the 
lake.  There  an  old  servant  will  await  us 
with  a  carriage.  He  will  take  you  to  a 
hunting  lodge  of  mine,  to  the  east  of  here, 
[182] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
egeeseeeeeeseeeeseseessseesesseseeseeee 

near  the  Bohemian  Forest.  There,  as  soon 
as  I  can  make  arrangements,  I  will  join 
you,  and  together  we  will  go  to  Italy.  I 
have  a  present  for  you  for  to-morrow  night, 
too  —  a  dress  and  a  jewel,  brought  all  the 
way  from  Stamboul.  You  shall  put  it  on, 
and  we  will  celebrate  our  marriage  here  at 
the  altar  - 

"What  was  that  —  a  knock?" 

"Yes." 

"The  Princess?" 

"It  must  be.  No  one  else  would  come. 
We  must  be  quick.  I  will  get  into  that 
chest  there,  beneath  the  picture.  Turn  the 
jeweled  fruit  to  the  right.  That  locks  it. 
Then  go  to  the  altar  and  say  your  prayers. 
If  she  questions  you,  your  quick  wits  must 
frame  an  answer." 

When  Elsbeth  unbolted  the  door,  a  tall, 
gaunt  woman  approaching  middle  age  swept 
in.  She  wore  a  long,  dark,  cloaklike  gar 
ment  of  morit,  and  a  violet-colored  kaza- 
bajka,  while  her  hair  was  partially  hidden 
[1831 


eeseeseeeeeseeseseeseeese&ees&seesesees 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
eseeseseeeeeesesseeseseseeseeseeesesses 

beneath  a  white  csepesz.  Suspended  from 
her  neck  was  a  ruby  heart.  She  had  nar 
row,  side-glancing  eyes,  a  long  oval  face,  and 
thin  lips.  Her  expression  indicated  cruelty. 

"My  fair  nun,  how  came  you  here  — 
and  at  this  hour?" 

"Most  gracious  Princess,"  replied  Els- 
beth,  bending  in  salutation,  "last  night  I 
had  a  dream  in  which  I  saw  The  Virgin  of 
the  Red  Girdle  poise  in  the  air  above  the 
Rakoczi  chapel.  That,  as  the  gracious 
Princess  knows,  bodes  ill.  I  made  a  vow 
to  avert  the  ill  by  prayerful  intercession  at 
the  altar." 

"And  you  chose  night,  good  sister,  for 
your  beneficent  purpose?" 

"By  day,  most  gracious  Princess,  I  am 
occupied  with  convent  duties.  Therefore  I 
sacrifice  to  it  the  hours  of  sleep." 

"But  the  Prince  —  does  he  help  you? 
Where  is  he?" 

"The  Prince?  Your  Highness  will  see 
that  I  am  at  my  prayers  alone,  and  with 
[184] 


esegsesess&eeeeseesesssse&ssse&sseessss 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
eseeeeeseeeseeeeeeeeseeeeeeseeseeeseees 

your  gracious  permission  I  will  return  to 
them." 

The  Princess  made  a  signal  of  dismissal, 
and  Elsbeth  knelt  with  her  rosary  at  the 
altar. 

Princess  Rakoczi  was  too  astute  and  too 
well  versed  in  the  intrigues  of  that  subtle 
age  to  take  the  nun's  smoothly  spoken 
words  at  their  face  value.  She  saw,  too, 
that  the  nun  was  a  woman  of  great  beauty. 
The  disfiguring  garb  could  not  hide  that. 
She  made  a  tour  of  the  chapel.  Around  the 
outer  edge,  at  the  base  of  the  walls,  were 
placed  coffers  in  which  the  church  silver, 
the  relics,  and  the  priestly  vestments  were 
stored.  From  time  to  time,  as  she  made 
this  tour  of  inspection,  she  glanced  sharply 
at  Elsbeth,  to  see  if  she  were  intent  upon 
her  beads.  When  she  had  completed  the 
circuit,  she  paused  at  Elsbeth's  right  and 
bent  to  look  at  the  gem-decorated  carving 
of  the  chest  that  stood  beneath  the  picture 

of  La  Fiorita.    As  she  bent  down,  she  heard 
[185] 


333383838888S3883338833838S883888383S33 
SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

S8838888383833888333S8S3338833383883883 

a  sharp  sound.  Looking  up,  she  saw 
that  the  rosary  had  dropped  upon  the 
marble  altar  and  that  the  nun's  hands 
were  trembling. 

"  I  have  found  him ! "  she  thought.  "  What 
a  lesson  I  will  teach  them!"  Jealous  rage 
pinched  her  pale  features  to  a  cruel  thin 
ness.  Aloud  she  said:  "Good  sister,  I 
thank  you  for  your  unselfish  watchfulness." 

Elsbeth  rose  and  remained  bowing  while 
the  Princess  passed  out.  When  she  had 
been  gone  a  sufficient  time  for  safety,  the 
nun  bolted  the  door  and  released  the  Prince. 

'You  shall  not  have  another  experience 
like  this!"  he  said,  clasping  her  in  his  arms. 

"But  to-morrow  night?" 

"She  would  not  spy  upon  us  two  nights 
in  succession." 

On  the  way  across  the  lake,  the  sparkles 
of  light  upon  the  water  were  not  more 
numerous  than  the  words  of  love  which  he 
lavished  upon  Elsbeth.  They  erased  from 
her  mind  the  disagreeable  occurrence.  She 
[186] 


888888888888888888888888888888388888883 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888388888888888888888888888883 

thought  only  of  the  morrow,  of  escape  — 
and  of  the  gorgeous  gown  and  the  jewel 
that  had  come  from  Stamboul. 

As  soon  as  they  left  the  chapel,  the  Prin 
cess  had  the  door  unbolted,  and  entered, 
followed  by  two  men  bearing  a  chest  iden 
tical  in  size  and  design  with  the  one  that 
stood  beneath  the  picture.  In  obedience  to 
her  command  they  exchanged  them,  and 
took  the  former  chest  back  to  the  castle. 

The  next  night  found  Elsbeth  on  the 
stairs  waiting  eagerly.  When  Prince  Ra- 
koczi  came,  she  took  the  package  he  gave 
her  and  ran  back  to  her  room.  When  again 
she  came  out,  she  wore  a  short  white  satin 
princess  dress,  heavily  embroidered  in  seed 
pearls.  It  was  cut  low  and  square  at  the 
neck,  and  flared  at  the  bottom.  It  resembled 
in  style  and  cut  the  votive  robes  made  for 
statues  of  the  Virgin.  About  her  neck  was 
a  cross  of  diamonds.  The  convent  cloak 
was  thrown  over  her  arm,  to  be  used  in 
case  of  need. 

[187] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

No  sooner  had  they  entered  the  chapel 
and  seen  to  the  safe  bolting  of  the  door, 
than  with  kisses  and  caresses  he  led  her  to 
the  picture  of  La  Fiorita.  Moving  a  few 
steps  away,  he  paused  and  looked  at  her. 

:'You  cannot  imagine  how  greatly  you 
resemble  that  picture.  In  certain  ways  the 
faces  are  identical.  The  difference  is  that 
you  have  not  lived  so  much.  That  is  the 
woman  my  father  loved.  This  is  the  woman 
whom  I  love.  As  she  was  the  grief  of  his 
life,  you  will  be  the  happiness  of  mine — " 
An  imperative  knock  interrupted  him. 

Elsbeth  donned  the  cloak  and  hood,  draw 
ing  it  carefully  over  the  whiteness  of  her 
gown.  Then  she  unbolted  the  door.  Gra 
ciously  the  Princess  entered. 

"My  good  sister,  I  am  going  to  take 
you  from  your  prayerful  duties  for  a  few 
moments  to-night  to  gratify  a  curiosity  of 
mine." 

"I   shall  be  most  happy  to   serve  you, 
Gracious  Princess,"  murmured  Elsbeth. 
[188] 


sesee&eseeeseeseeeeeseeseeseseeseeeeees 
SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 


"I  have  heard,"  she  continued,  "that 
beneath  the  fingers  of  a  pure  woman  the 
opal  loses  its  angry  fire  and  becomes  white 
like  a  pearl.  It  is  my  wish  to  find  out  if 
that  is  true.  Now  on  that  chest  there  — 
the  one  beneath  the  repentant  Magdalene  — 
opals  are  set.  You,  of  course,  having  had 
no  occasion  to  observe  the  chest,  have  not 
seen  them.  I  will  make  the  test  in  the 
light  of  this  candle,  if  you  will  come.  Now 
observe  the  decoration  on  the  chest  front, 
a  procession  of  wise  men  bearing  offerings 
to  the  infant  Christ.  It  was  designed  and 
made  by  Maestro  Benedetto  da  Majano  and 
is  well-nigh  priceless.  Notice  the  rich  soft 
ness  of  the  wood  —  its  depth  of  color.  Do 
you  see  how  it  poises  between  the  shades  of 
brown  and  red?  Look  at  that  kneeling  figure 
there,  holding  up  a  plate  filled  with  fruit. 
The  fruit  in  the  center  of  the  plate  is  made 
of  opals.  Now  place  your  finger  upon  the 
central  one,  the  apple.  It  represents,  I  fancy, 
the  forbidden  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life. 
[189] 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"That's  right.  That's  right.  Remark 
able!  Remarkable!  It  has  grown  pale- 
see!  So  have  you,  good  nun.  Why  is  that? 
Why  does  your  hand  tremble?  Hold  it  more 
firmly,  that  I  may  see.  There !  —  there !  — 
Now  press  your  fingers  on  that  central 
stone." 

Elsbeth  obeyed.  As  she  did  so,  a  shriek 
rang  out,  so  heartrending,  so  horrible,  it 
curdled  the  blood.  Again  a  shriek  of  mortal 
anguish  —  then  silence. 

Above  her,  stern  and  erect,  Princess 
Rakoczi  towered,  her  thin  face  illumined 
by  the  pointed  candle.  Without  a  word 
she  gathered  up  her  rustling  robe  and  walked 
away. 

When  she  had  gone,  Elsbeth  lifted  the 
chest  lid.  "Merciful  God!"  she  cried. 
"Help!  Help!  Help!"  Again  and  again 
she  called,  until  her  throat  felt  numb  and 
weary. 

WTien  she  pressed  her  ringer  to  the  opal, 
she   had    touched    a    spring    that    released 
[190J 


3cxx/c&o&:y3C'y&^^ 


SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
esseseeseeeeeeeeeeeeesesseeeeeesseesess 

round,  needle-like  darts  of  steel,  which  had 
been  concealed  beneath  the  satin  lining. 
The  body  within  was  shredded  into  ribbons. 
In  the  space  of  a  moment  it  had  become  an 
unrecognizable  mass  of  pulp.  Across  it  lay 
a  silver  heart,  shining  dimly,  and  beside  it 
two  tiny  marble  Cupids  held  chains  of 
roses,  which  were  dotted  with  blood. 

Madly  she  grasped  the  steels,  attempting 
to  tear  them  away.  But  she  succeeded 
only  in  making  deep  wounds  in  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  She  ran  to  the  castle  door, 
determined  to  have  revenge.  The  door  was 
fastened  on  the  other  side.  When  she  beat 
upon  it  and  tried  to  call  for  help,  she  found 
she  could  not  speak.  Her  throat  was  para 
lyzed.  She  was  dumb. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  sisters  of  St. 
Euthymius  came  to  tell  her  that  they  had 
decided  to  release  her  from  her  confinement, 
they  found  her  lying  upon  her  bed,  robed  in 
white  satin  and  pearls,  a  cross  of  diamonds 
upon  her  breast.  When  they  spoke  to  her  in 
f  1911 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
ssssssssssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssss 

their  astonishment  at  the  sight  that  met 
their  eyes,  and  asked  for  an  explanation,  she 
pointed  to  her  mouth.  They  understood. 
She  had  taken  the  vow  of  eternal  silence. 
Then  she  held  up  her  hands.  The  palms 
were  dotted  with  spots  of  red.  They  fell 
upon  their  knees  in  reverence  and  adora 
tion,  crying:  "A  miracle!  The  stigmata! 
The  stigmata! "  They  saw,  too,  that  her  face 
was  changed,  and  that  her  hair  was  streaked 
with  white. 

For  the  remainder  of  her  life,  which 
lasted  twenty  -five  years,  Saint  Elsbeth  was 
never  known  to  break  her  vow  of  silence. 

The  white  robe  and  the  diamond  cross 
which  came  down  from  heaven  when  she 
was  made  the  bride  of  Christ  possessed 
greater  healing  efficacy  than  any  relics  in 
Hungary.  Their  power  was  oftenest  called 
into  service  by  maidens  and  young  lovers, 
until  Saint  Elsbeth  became  the  patron  saint 
of  the  heart.  Through  these  relics  Saint 
Euthymius  became  the  richest  convent  in 
[  1921 


esseesseeesseseeeeeeseeeeseeeseeeeeesee 

SACRED  RELICS  OF  ST.  EUTHYMIUS 
seesesesesseesseeesseessssseeseseseeess 

all  Hungary   and  the  most  widely  known 
for  the  piety  of  its  inmates. 

There  are  certain  days  of  midsummer 
when  the  convent  is  gratuitously  open  to 
the  public.  Then  the  room  with  its  tiny 
window  overlooking  the  lake  is  shown, 
where  the  miracle  was  wrought,  and  the 
white  satin  robe  and  diamond  cross  came 
down  from  heaven  to  honor  Saint  Elsbeth, 
who  was  the  bride  of  Christ. 


1931 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

Vivere  ardendo  e  non  sentire  il  malo  !  l 

GASPARA  STAMPA. 

(To  live  intensely,  to  be  impervious  to  wrong!) 

were  sitting  over  our  after-dinner 
cigars,  my  host,  Gustav  Berengy,  and 
myself,  when  the  conversation  touched  on 
love.  Without  pausing  to  consider  the  effect 
of  the  question  or  its  evident  infringement 
of  guest-right,  I  boyishly  asked  him  why  he 
had  never  married. 

Gustav  Berengy  had  been  the  friend  of  my 
grandfather.  They  had  known  each  other 
in  Paris  in  their  youth.  I  remembered  hear 
ing  my  grandfather  say  that  Berengy  was 
not  only  the  handsomest,  but  the  most  dis 
tinguished  man  he  had  met.  Looking  out 
upon  the  luxurious  park-setting  of  his  seaside 

1  From  "  Rime  di  tre  gentil  donne." 
[  194] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS8SSSSSSSSS 
home,  I  could  not  help  wondering  why  he 
had  always  lived  alone. 

As  I  asked  the  question,  I  saw  that  the  eyes 
looking  into  mine  were  dimmed  for  a  moment, 
as  if  by  a  veil  of  grief. 

"I  am  married,"  he  replied;   "not  by  the 
law  of  man,  but  by  something  more  sacred  - 
the  law  of  the  heart,  which  is  God's  law." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  hastened  to  make 
reply,  repenting  of  the  ill-timed  question.  "  I 
had  not  heard  of  your  marriage,  nor  indeed," 
I  added,  "of  your  wife's  death." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  was  the  answer,  "be 
cause  I  do  not  know  myself  whether  she  is 
alive  or  dead.  In  all  these  years  I  have  not 
been  able  to  tell.  She  is  here  with  me,  in 
the  great  room  there  above,"  indicating 
with  his  hand  a  wing  of  the  house. 

"I  do  not  believe  I  understand,"  I  mur 
mured  awkwardly,  trying  to  hit  upon  a  fit 
ting  answer. 

"Very  likely  you  do  not,  because  I  do  not." 
Grief  like  a  shadow  flitted  across  his  face. 
[195] 


ssssssssassssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeseessessseeeseesssessssesseesseesges 

For  the  moment  it  looked  aged  and  strangely 
weary. 

"Of  course  you  do  not  understand,  be 
cause  I  do  not.  For  fifty  years  she  has  been 
there  —  in  that  room.  For  fifty  years  my 
heart  has  not  wavered  in  its  allegiance  to  her, 
and  yet  I  do  not  know,  as  I  have  told  you, 
whether  she  is  alive  or  dead." 

We  sat  in  silence,  while  my  host  looked 
reminiscently  out  across  the  sea,  as  if  some 
where  in  its  spaces  he  sought  the  mystery's 
solving.  A  sensation  of  fear  swept  over  me, 
which,  however,  I  controlled  upon  the  in 
stant.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  folly.  This 
genial,  courtly  gentleman  was  not  mad.  In 
the  eyes  that  looked  into  mine  there  was 
none  of  the  maniac's  frenzy.  On  the  con 
trary,  they  were  gently  meditative,  and 
pregnant  with  thought  and  grief. 

"No,"  he  said,  reminiscently,  lighting  a 

fresh  cigar,  whose  white  smoke  in  the  gentle 

evening  floated  up  and  blended  aureole-like 

with  the  thick  whiteness  of  his  hair,  "no,  I 

[196] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeeeeeesseseeeeeeeeesseeeeeeseseeeeeee 

do  not  mind  telling  you  why  I  have  never 
married,  as  the  world  puts  it.  It  is  a  strange 
story.  I  doubt  if  you  will  believe  it.  But 
you  are  leaving  on  the  morrow,  and  I  shall 
never  see  you  again.  Besides,  I  am  old,  you 
know.  I  am  eighty." 

With  a  sad  smile  he  waved  aside  my  polite 
demurrer.  "Fifty  years  is  long  enough  to 
keep  a  secret,  is  it  not?"  he  continued. 
"And  it  might  be  well  in  after  years  for 
some  one  to  know  the  truth.  It  might  help 
her." 

Involuntarily  my  thoughts  flew  to  the  great 
silent  room  above,  where  for  fifty  years  the 
woman  had  lain  who  was  neither  alive  nor 
dead.  Little  did  I  guess  what  was  housed 
there,  as  my  heart  beat  eagerly  with  antici 
pation. 

"I  was  born,  as  you  know,  in  France," 
said  my  host.  "My  mother  died  at  my 
birth.  My  childhood  was  spent  in  a  mo 
nastic  school  on  the  gloomy  coast  of  La  Bas 
Bretagne.  There  I  did  not  see  much  child- 
[197] 


ssssssssssssssssssssassssssssssssssssss 
THE  OPAL  ISLES 


ish  merriment,  as  you  may  imagine.  Shortly 
after  graduating,  when  the  subject  was  being 
discussed  as  to  whether  or  not  I,  the  younger 
son,  should  take  holy  orders  —  and  at  that 
time  of  my  impressionable  youth  I  was  not 
greatly  averse  to  the  idea,  so  accustomed 
had  I  become  to  monastic  discipline  —  my 
father  and  my  brother  died,  leaving  me  heir 
to  the  name  and  fortune.  Thus  duty,  rather 
than  inclination,  kept  me  in  a  world  of 
which  at  that  time  I  knew  nothing. 

"Finding  the  loneliness  of  the  old  home 
unendurable,  I  went  to  Paris.  There  I  saw 
something  of  life.  When  at  length  dissipa 
tion  palled  upon  me,  I  gave  myself  over  to 
study  and  to  art.  It  was  then  that  I  met 
your  grandfather.  Finally,  I  determined  to 
make  the  grand  tour,  which  in  those  days  was 
de  rigueur  for  young  men  of  wealth  and  posi 
tion.  I  sauntered  across  Europe,  pausing 
wherever  caprice  seized  me,  idled  carelessly 
across  Asia,  dallying  with  my  art  the  while, 
reached  its  eastern  coast,  and  found  myself 
[198] 


S83833S2388S3S3333SS3S3SSSS383333S3S333 
THE  OPAL  ISLES 

ggSSSSS3338833333S33833S3S8333S33S33333 

confronted  by  the  great  Pacific.  Here,  not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  but  without  a  defi 
nite  goal  in  view,  I  took  passage  for  a  cruise 
among  the  islands  of  Polynesia.  Some 
months  later,  when  I  had  satisfied  my 
curiosity  in  regard  to  the  South  Seas,  just 
after  leaving  the  Austral  Isles,  a  typhoon 
struck  us  and  we  were  wrecked  upon  an  out 
lying  coral  reef.  The  steamer  was  virtually 
cut  in  two.  The  entire  crew  were  drowned 
with  the  exception  of  the  first  mate,  one 
sailor,  and  myself. 

"  We  were  swept  by  the  fury  of  the  waves 
upon  a  high  white  beach,  where  a  group  of 
natives  who  had  seen  the  wreck  were  waiting 
for  the  storm  to  subside,  with  the  intention 
of  plundering  the  ship.  I  found  that  we  had 
merely  exchanged  one  form  of  death  for  an 
other  and  a  crueler  one.  We  were  seized, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  and  thrown  upon  the 
ground  to  await  the  tribe's  decision  of  our 
fate  upon  the  morrow.  That  night,  while 
I  lay  awake  wondering  what  the  outcome 
[199] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeessesesegeseeesessseeseeseeseeseseeg 

would  be,  a  young  native  woman,  whose  sin 
ewy  strength  had  caught  my  eye  during  the 
day,  slipped  up  to  where  I  lay  alone  at  a 
distance  from  the  others,  and  with  incredible 
swiftness  cut  the  thongs  that  bound  me. 
Putting  her  finger  to  her  lips  significantly, 
she  motioned  me  to  follow.  One  fate  was  as 
bad  as  another,  if  they  all  meant  death,  and 
I  did  not  hesitate. 

"She  went  across  the  island,  walking  so 
swiftly  that  it  was  all  that  I  could  do  to  keep 
up.  Not  once  did  she  look  back,  or  seem 
to  think  of  me.  She  went  straight  on,  as  if 
impelled  by  fear.  I  have  no  idea  how  far  we 
walked.  When  at  length  she  paused  with  a 
gesture  that  made  me  know  that  the  journey 
was  at  an  end,  the  day  was  not  far  off.  We 
had  crossed  the  island,  and  again  the  sea  lay 
before  us. 

"The  shore  was  different  here.  It  was  re 
pellent  and  stern,  like  the  coast  of  La  Bas 
Bretagne  which  I  had  known  in  my  gloomy 
childhood.  Rocks  sloped  in  sharp  declivity 
[2001 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

to  the  water,  which  looked  threatening  and 
black. 

"Going  up  to  one  of  the  rocky  walls,  she 
pointed  to  an  opening  beneath,  and  went  in 
a  little  way,  motioning  me  to  follow.  There 
I  saw  a  stairway  hewn  from  the  living  rock, 
and  descending  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
Although  it  seemed  at  first  glance  to  be 
perpendicular,  it  sloped  slightly  toward  the 
water,  at  whose  edge  we  had  entered,  so  I 
knew  that  whatever  pathway  lay  beyond 
must  lead  beneath  the  sea. 

"  She  crouched  down  upon  the  stair  beside 
me  and,  stretching  out  one  long  bare  arm, 
pointed  down,  down,  down  —  once,  twice, 
thrice  —  meaning  that  there  I  must  go.  Then 
she  took  from  her  back  a  bag-shaped  basket 
and  handed  it  to  me.  In  it  were  food  and 
drink. 

"Like  a  whirr  of  yellow  swords,  the  first 
sun-rays  pierced  the  sky.  As  if  frightened 
to  see  the  day  so  soon,  she  bounded  up  the 

stairs  and  was  gone.     To  go  back  meant 
[201  ] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

SSSSSSSSS^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

death;  to  go  on  meant  I  knew  not  what. 
But  the  chance  of  a  life  hung  in  the  balance, 
so  I  went  on. 

"The  stairs  led  downward  between  smooth 
walls  of  rock.  How  far  I  do  not  know.  I 
counted  the  steps  until  I  could  count  no 
longer.  My  brain  grew  dizzy  and  refused  to 
work.  I  sat  down  and  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands  to  recover  poise.  I  got  up  and  went  on, 
and  again  my  brain  refused  to  count  the  in 
finite  steps.  Again  I  had  to  give  it  up. 

"The  opening  above,  which  for  a  time  shed 
light  plentifully  upon  me,  became  a  distant 
pin-point,  then  vanished,  and  inky  blackness 
surrounded  me.  I  should  have  felt  like  one 
buried  alive,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fresh  air 
that  swept  between  the  perpendicular  walls 
of  this  canal-way. 

"But  what  awaited  me  at  the  bottom? 
Was  it  water,  black  and  silent  and  of  fathom 
less  depth  —  impassable,  mysterious  water 
that  had  never  reflected  the  stars  or  the  sun? 
Was  I  to  find  myself  upon  the  edge  of  an 
[  202  ] 


S33S33833888333S33S3SSS8S88S3S3S8Sg®Sg8 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 


abyss  whose  depth  I  could  sense  but  could 
not  estimate? 

"What  torturing  fear  and  suspense  did  I 
not  suffer,  as  I  descended  that  frightful  stair 
way!  Suppose  my  foot  slipped  and  I  should 
fall!  What  then!  But  she,  my  guide  of  the 
night,  had  motioned  that  I  was  to  follow  the 
stairway.  She  had  not  crossed  the  island 
merely  to  bring  about  my  death.  It  was  her 
intention  to  save  me.  I  must  have  faith  in 
her.  There  was  no  other  way.  I  summoned 
fresh  courage  and  crept  down  the  blackness. 

"I  lost  all  account  of  time  as  hours  go. 
But  judging  by  my  weariness  and  hunger 
when  I  reached  the  level,  I  think  I  must 
have  put  in  a  good  part  of  a  day  in  descend 
ing  that  frightful  stairway.  At  the  bottom 
I  found  myself  in  a  smooth  and  level  road 
enclosed  between  walls  of  granite. 

"But  the  silence  and  the  darkness  —  how 
can  I  tell  you  what  they  were?  Such  silence 
drives  men  mad.  The  darkness  was  like 

velvet   in   its   black   impenetrableness.      It 
[203] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eesseeeeesseseesessseseesesesee&eeseses 

seemed  to  fall  upon  my  face  and  stifle  me. 
Nothing  disturbed  the  silence.  Even  the 
wind  slipped  noiselessly  through  this  grave 
of  granite.  And  it  had  come  so  far  that  it 
had  freed  its  wings  of  the  scents  of  the 
world  of  light,  of  the  sea  and  of  the  earth. 
No  message  from  the  world  above  came  here. 
Not  a  sound  broke  the  silence.  From  the 
walls  of  barren  rock  no  dust  clods  fell  to  tell 
of  the  ceaseless,  weaving  life  of  the  earth. 
Adown  their  sides  no  water  tinkled.  Along 
the  road  there  was  not  even  the  friendly 
whirr  of  a  dried  leaf  blown  by  the  wind. 
Nothing!  Nothing! 

"After  I  had  traveled  for  a  time  and  the 
silence  had  heaped  its  leaden  weight  upon 
me,  I  shrieked.  I  could  restrain  myself  no 
longer.  I  cried  out  with  all  the  strength  of 
lung  that  I  possessed,  and  the  granite  walls 
sent  back  a  million,  broken- voiced  echoes 
to  beat  about  my  ears. 

"For  days  I  traveled  on  like  this,  pausing 
only  to  eat  and  sleep.  I  had  lost  reckoning 
[204  ] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

of  time,  of  night,  of  day.  I  heard  only  the 
measured  sound  of  my  own  steps.  I  do  not 
know  how  many  days  and  nights  had  passed 
like  this,  when  I  found  that  the  road  was  lead 
ing  upward.  It  became  narrower  and  steeper. 
I  brushed  the  rock  walls  as  I  walked;  I  could 
scarcely  squeeze  between  them.  I  did  not 
fear.  The  sound  of  my  steps  had  dulled  my 
brain.  Darkness  had  paralyzed  the  power  to 
think. 

"Above  my  head  the  roof  lowered  till  I 
could  no  longer  stand  erect.  I  fell  upon 
my  knees  and  crept  forward.  The  wTind 
changed;  it  freshened.  I  thought  it  brought 
a  scent  of  the  sea.  Suddenly  thick  leaves 
barred  the  way.  I  brushed  through  them, 
and  the  star-splendid  circle  of  a  tropic  night 
swept  into  view. 

"I  was  in  the  garden  of  a  spacious  resi 
dence  that  crowned  an  elevation.  Below 
me  a  white  city  lay,  and  around  and  beyond 
the  sea.  How  I  drank  in  the  air!  How  I 
rejoiced  in  the  sleepy  rustle  of  leaves  and 
[205] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eesesseseesseseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeessee 

grass,  and  in  the  regained  face  of  the 
earth ! 

"The  city  which  presented  itself  to  my  eyes 
was  arranged  in  the  form  of  a  wrheel,  whose 
hub  wras  the  dwelling  in  the  garden  where  I 
stood.  From  the  dwelling  the  streets  radiated 
like  spokes,  and  at  the  end  of  each,  terminat 
ing  at  the  island's  edge,  shone  the  sea.  Around 
the  eminence  spread  a  circular  park  of  con 
siderable  breadth,  adorned  with  flowers  and 
statues.  Around  this  lay  a  smooth  wide 
road,  bordered  at  regular  intervals  with 
slender  palms,  whose  leaves  in  the  windless 
night  were  motionless.  Opposite,  the  city 
streets  began,  and  each  was  headed  by  a 
building  of  great  beauty,  so  that  beyond  the 
park  and  the  roadway  rose  a  circular  sweep 
of  noble  buildings.  At  regular  distances 
from  the  central  starting-point,  each  street 
was  interrupted  by  a  small  circular  space  of 
greensward,  and  these,  uniting,  made  a  drive 
way  around  the  city. 

"I  chose  at  random  one  of  the  paths  that 
[206] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

intersected  the  garden  and  followed  it.  Since 
I  was  the  toy  of  chance,  I  determined  to 
resign  myself  bravely.  After  a  detour  the 
path  led  toward  the  dwelling,  blended  with 
one  of  its  marble  walks,  and  ended  at  the  foot 
of  a  staircase.  I  climbed  the  stairs  and  en 
tered  an  uncovered  corridor  of  white  marble. 
After  walking  to  the  end,  I  found  it  closed 
by  a  smooth  and  rounded  stone.  I  touched 
it.  It  swung  open,  enfolding  and  sweeping 
me  wTithin  its  circle,  and  then  closed  silently 
behind  me.  Impenetrable  draperies  of  silk 
hung  in  front  of  me,  brushing  my  face.  I 
parted  them  and  entered  the  strangest  room 
I  ever  saw. 

"It  was  long  and  of  unusual  height.  The 
top  was  uncovered  and  let  in  the  tropic 
night.  Around  the  edge  of  the  top  of  the 
walls  a  rim  of  opal  glass  projected,  upon 
which  a  glass  ceiling  was  folded  back,  to  be 
used  in  case  of  need.  There  were  no  pictures 
in  the  room,  nor  were  there  decorations  or 
adornment  of  any  kind.  The  four  walls 
[207] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eseeeeseessseseeseseeseseseeseeeseeeses 

were  hung  uniformly  in  curtains  of  heavy 
white  silk,  which  fell  in  straight  folds  to  the 
floor. 

'  There  was  no  air  moving.  Indeed,  I 
remembered  the  night  outside  to  have  been 
singularly  windless.  Yet  these  white  cur 
tains  shivered  and  swayed  with  a  sibilant 
and  silken  murmur.  Across  their  surface  gold 
lines  and  figures  swept.  An  endless  chain  of 
golden  phantoms  girdled  the  spacious  cham 
ber.  From  the  walls  bright  forms  leaped 
with  a  burst  of  light,  and  then  faded  back  to 
whiteness.  Round  and  round  swept  a  glit 
tering,  changing  pageant,  impalpable  and 
soundless.  Sometimes  the  gold  within  the 
witch -wrought  silk  blazed  forth  until  the  air 
gleamed  with  yellow  light  that  dimmed  the 
stars.  Anon  it  paled  to  such  a  vague  misty 
radiance  as  engirdles  a  winter  moon.  But  al 
ways  there  was  change  and  light  and  motion 
and  the  rustle  of  swayed  silk.  If  I  examined 
the  curtains  closely,  if  I  took  them  up  in  my 
hands,  I  found  that  they  were  colorless  and 
[2081 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
ee&sseeeeeseeseeseseeeeeeseseees&seeses 

uniformly  white.  But  if  I  let  them  fall 
again,  and  stepped  a  foot  away  to  look  at 
them,  gold  light  and  flashing  form  leaped  out 
to  startle  me. 

"There  were  times  when  the  gold  wall- 
light  faded  and  a  dim  brilliancy  took  its 
place.  Occasionally,  too,  a  silver  light  in 
spirited  the  restless  curtains,  pallid  frost- 
shine  filled  the  room,  and  horizontal  lines  of 
silver  swept  round  the  walls.  When  the  sil 
ver  lines  grouped  themselves  into  form  and 
being,  it  was  as  if  lustrous  spirits  danced 
airily  a  ghost  dance  of  joy,  now  flashing  for 
an  instant  into  vivid  life,  now  paling  and 
fading  into  silver  mist  that  still  retained 
their  gracious  contours. 

"There  was  no  furniture  save  a  long,  nar 
row,  bed-like  pedestal  or  support  of  ivory, 
which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room.  Upon 
this  rested  a  mammoth  sickle  likewise  of 
ivory,  formed  like  the  new  moon,  and  within 
its  hollow  curve  there  lay  -  -  how  shall  I  tell 
you !  —  was  it  a  woman  wrapped  in  lustrous 
[209] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

gauze,  or  was  it  a  mammoth  opal  that  bore 
a  woman's  form?  Standing  beside  the  figure 
and  looking  down,  I  could  not  tell.  Be 
neath  the  pallid  surface  colors  glowed  like 
tint  of  flesh  with  jewels  upon  it.  Again,  they 
seemed  to  be  only  the  fiery  flash  of  an  opal's 
heart,  and  the  surface  became  icily  cold. 

"I  discovered  plainly  once  or  twice  the 
long,  noble  lines  of  a  figure  relaxed  as  if  in 
sleep.  Within  the  white  stone  floated  the 
gracious  semblance  of  a  woman,  yet  far 
away  and  insubstantial,  like  colors  seen  in 
a  dream.  Sometimes  I  thought  the  figure 
breathed,  but  by  the  light  of  those  moving 
curtains  I  could  not  tell.  They  kept  up  such 
a  tremor  of  shifting  brightness  that  my  own 
body  became  unreal  and  no  longer  seemed 
to  belong  to  me.  They  dazzled  my  senses 
and  broke  my  chain  of  reasoned  thinking. 
I  was  adrift  with  nothing  to  guide  me.  When 
at  length  I  turned  from  contemplation  of  the 
mysterious  figure  to  find  again,  if  possible, 
the  place  of  exit,  in  the  wall-labyrinth  of 
[210] 


33S8S8333S3S38S3SSS33333833833S33338333 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eee&seeseeseseseeeeeeseseeseeeeeeeeeees 

weaving  light,  some  power  which  I  could  not 
but  obey  compelled  me  to  pause  on  a  sudden 
and  look  back. 

"There,  standing  upright  by  the  moon's 
ivory  horn,  was  the  opal  woman.  The  tan 
gling  gauze  which  covered  her  —  which  I  had 
not  dared  to  touch  to  find  if  it  were  gauze 
or  the  smooth  cold  surface  of  a  stone  —  had 
slipped  to  her  feet,  where  it  billowed  white 
like  foam.  She  was  taller  than  the  average 
woman  and  more  slender,  yet  withal  muscu- 
larly  built  and  round.  Hers  was  the  body  of 
Pallas. 

"An  apron-like  corselet  of  flexible  gold, 
woven  in  open-work  squares,  fitted  her 
smoothly,  falling  evenly  to  her  feet,  but 
opened  to  the  waist  on  either  side.  Beneath 
this  from  the  waist  downward  fell  something 
silken  and  white,  softening  the  sharp  outline 
of  the  gold.  In  each  little  open-work  square 
of  the  corselet  hung  a  pink  gem,  and  be 
tween  her  breasts  was  set  a  ruby. 

"  Her  hair,  which  was  thick  and  of  a  bronze 
[211] 


"yysGG&x&sr^^ 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
ssssssssssssssssssssss^ssssssssssssssss 

color,  was  arranged  in  great  coils  on  either 
side  of  her  head,  completely  covering  her 
ears.  In  the  center  of  each  coil  shone  a  ruby 
that  matched  in  size  and  color  the  one  be 
tween  her  breasts.  From  these  rubies,  and 
attached  to  them,  extended  a  net  of  tiny 
pearls,  covering  her  hair  and  holding  it  se 
curely  in  place. 

"So  absorbed  was  I  in  contemplation  of 
her  person,  that  I  forgot  that  word  was  due 
from  me.  When  at  length  I  lifted  my  eyes 
to  hers,  it  was  as  if  along  with  the  conquest 
of  my  senses  the  conquest  of  my  mind  had 
been  completed.  They  seemed  to  enfold  and 
sweep  me  within  a  sea  of  light  where  all 
things  were  foreign  to  my  will. 

"Notwithstanding  her  strange  and  fan 
tastic  costuming,  which  at  once  revealed 
and  enhanced  the  beauty  of  her  body,  I 
knew  that  this  was  no  vain  coquette.  This 
was  not  a  woman  to  find  pleasure  in  vulgar 
admiration.  Her  costume  I  felt  to  be  the 
result  of  some  ideal  of  life,  of  beauty,  which 
[212] 


883883883338338338388833333383388388883 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

was  the  ruling  passion  of  her  mind.  Calmly 
and  in  silence  we  looked  at  each  other.  In 
my  face  surprise  and  admiration  struggled. 
She,  however,  was  undisturbed  and  looked 
back  at  me  serenely. 

"Even  then,  before  a  word  had  been  ex 
changed  between  us,  I  felt  that  her  life  and 
her  ideal  of  life  were  altogether  dissimilar  to 
my  own,  that  mentally  we  were  the  opposite 
each  of  the  other.  Within  her  I  sensed  un- 
soundable  depths  of  peace  and  calm,  which 
had  their  origin  in  some  mental  possession  to 
which  I  was  an  alien.  I  measured  then  the 
abyss  that  lay  between  us. 

"  She  was  as  richly  colored  and  as  gorgeous 
as  a  canvas,  yet  in  her  bearing  there  was 
nothing  that  hinted  of  pride  or  self-con 
sciousness.  I  shall  never  forget  that  first 
glimpse  of  her.  The  picture  is  printed  in 
delibly  upon  my  brain,  despite  the  years 
that  have  intervened  —  so  vividly,  indeed, 
that  nothing  has  been  able  to  dim  it.  For 
me  it  has  dulled  all  other  visions.  Judge  of 
[213] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

it  by  the  fact  that  I  had  known  more  or  less 
well  the  beauties  of  Paris,  and  that  I  was 
accustomed  to  the  luxurious  gowning  of  the 
French  city.  It  was  only  a  few  seconds  that 
we  stood  there,  and  yet  —  so  vivifying  is 
the  power  of  beauty  -  -  it  was  time  enough 
for  a  world  of  fancies  to  sweep  my  brain. 

"Her  eyes  were  two  flowers  set  within  the 
petaled  pallor  of  her  face.  Wide,  straight- 
fronting  eyes  of  chastest  blue  they  were, 
whose  vivid  vitality  was  softened  by  an 
inner  and  a  spiritual  flame.  Her  face  sym 
bolized  the  dream-white  city  which  I  had 
seen  outside  in  the  night.  And  the  chang 
ing  light-splendor  of  that  wondrous  room 
was  caught  up  and  concentrated  there.  As 
I  stood  looking  at  her,  a  thousand  vague  and 
vanishing  glimpses  of  remembered  loveliness 
came  back  to  haunt  me.  There  was  some 
thing  about  her  that  shut  off  thought  con 
nection  with  the  active  world  of  fact,  and  set 
one  adrift  among  the  pages  of  the  painters. 
Despite  her  slenderness  and  her  purely  wo- 
[214] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eseessseeses&eseee&essseeseeeseseeeeees 

manly  beauty  she  was  strong  and  master 
ful.  She  suggested  the  "  virile  note  of  great 
art." 

"In  silence  I  stood  and  waited  for  her  to 
speak.  In  a  voice  whose  calmness  was  like 
the  azure  flame  within  her  eyes,  she  said: 
'You  were  not  going  away,  were  you? 
Stay  and  be  my  guest.  Besides,  you  know, 
you  cannot  go.  There  is  no  way.' 

'"Nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure 
than  to  be  your  guest  —  for  a  time/  I  added. 

"'For  a  time?' 

" '  Yes ;  then  I  must  go  back  to  Europe,  to 
my  home  —  to  France.' 

"'Home?  Yes,  yes;  of  course  —  but  how 
can  you!  You  are  in  the  Opal  Isles.' 

"'And  where  are  they?' 

"A  strange  look  crossed  her  face,  but  so 
swiftly  that  I  could  not  tell  whether  it  was 
perplexity  or  grief. 

'"The  Opal  Isles  —  they  —  they  —  are  in 
the  center  of  the  shoreless  sea  where  the  white 
wave  circles.    And  I  am  Asra.' 
[215] 


333533333S8383333383323333S3333332388S3 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
^ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"But  there  are  steamers,  of  course;  I 
can  - 

"Never  mind  to-night.  That  can  wait, 
can  it  not?'  She  touched  a  hidden  spring 
that  summoned  a  servant.  'The  blue  room.' 
Then,  turning  to  me,  she  said :  '  He  will  give 
you  clothing  suitable  to  our  life  and  climate. 
Good  night.' 

"Good  night,'  I  repeated  in  a  daze. 

"After  nearing  the  curtain  behind  which 
the  servant  had  disappeared  and  stood  wait 
ing,  I  looked  back.  Asra  lay  silent  and  white, 
as  I  had  first  seen  her,  between  the  pale  cres 
cent's  ivory  horns.  Again  she  seemed  to  be 
not  a  woman,  but  a  gigantic  opal,  beneath 
whose  surface  a  rainbow  slept.  The  curtains 
had  begun  their  sibilant  whispering  again,  and 
from  them  leaped  gold  phantoms  in  a  dance 
of  joy.  Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  ivory  moon 
they  circled.  They  formed  a  glittering  cor 
don  about  it,  weaving  of  bright  motion  a 
visible  song  of  sleep.  When  the  long  cur 
tains  fell  behind  me,  I  thought:  *  Perhaps 
[216] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

83S3S83S®g33gS388g83S3SSS338S883333383§ 

it  has  all  been  a  dream/    I  did  not  know.    I 
could  not  tell. 

;'This  is  the  guest-room,'  the  servant 
said,  breaking  in  upon  my  reverie.  'It  tells 
of  the  supremacy  of  the  sea.  Here  are  your 
clothes.  Good  night.' 

"The  room  was  similar  to  the  one  I  had 
left.  Like  it,  it  was  roofless.  Like  it,  too,  it 
was  walled  in  white  silk.  Within  the  silk 
slumbered  not  gold  and  silver,  but  the  mys 
teries  of  the  sea.  I  saw  depth  on  depth  of 
translucent  water  of  every  varying  shade, 
running  the  entire  gamut  of  blues  and  greens, 
within  which  gem-winged  fish,  slim  silvery 
serpents,  and  strange  iridescent  sea-life  swam. 
It  was  as  if  I  looked  through  leagues  of 
water,  as  one  looks  across  a  level  prairie. 
Sometimes  the  water  was  blue  and  warm 
and  pierced  by  sunlight.  Again  it  was  black- 
green  and  angry.  Sometimes  a  cold  light 
shivered  this  soundless  ocean,  a  great  wave 
came  rolling  in,  crested  with  pale  foam  the 
color  of  fear.  At  the  moment  when  it  seemed 
[217J 


ready  to  break  and  shed  its  tumbling  waters 
over  me,  it  vanished  and  the  white  silk 
trembled  crisply.  I  remembered  what  Asra 
had  said  of  the  white  wave  that  circles  the 
shoreless  sea.  The  servant,  too,  had  spoken 
of  the  supremacy  of  the  sea.  I  felt  that  in 
both  expressions  there  was  concealed  a 
threat,  or  at  least  a  deeper  meaning.  Un 
bidden  came  the  thought  that  perhaps  the 
Opal  Isles  and  the  people  who  dwelled  within 
them  were  somehow  at  the  mercy  of  the  sea. 
"When  I  stretched  myself  out  upon  the 
narrow  ivory  bed  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
I  still  continued  to  watch  the  curtains,  in 
the  dim  wonder  of  approaching  sleep.  I  was 
conscious  of  their  beauty  and  their  magic, 
but  I  no  longer  felt  any  desire  to  solve  a 
mystery  where  all  was  mystery.  As  I  fell 
asleep  I  wondered  if  I,  too,  would  be  trans 
formed  into  an  opal.  Why  not?  Are  we 
not  all  opals  by  day  and  night,  white  flesh 
opals  beneath  whose  surface  flashes  the  flame 
of  imagination? 

[218] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

3333383S3SS883333388338833SS3S33S338383 

"WThen  I  went  downstairs  the  next  day 
dressed  in  a  white  tunic  worn  after  the  man 
ner  of  the  Greek  costume,  I  found  that  I 
had  slept  the  greater  part  of  the  day.  On  the 
way  a  servant  met  me  and  led  me  to  a  room 
where  Asra  awaited  me.  She  wore  the  won 
derful  costume  of  the  evening  before.  The 
sight  of  her  brought  back  the  golden  phan 
toms  of  which  she  seemed  to  be  an  em 
bodied  one.  I  wondered  if,  when  I  ap 
proached  her,  she  would  vanish  and  the 
pallor  of  space  confront  me.  I  had  ceased 
to  trust  the  testimony  of  my  senses.  But 
she  stood  there  calmly  smiling,  the  swinging 
pink  corselet  gems  swaying  with  the  move 
ment  of  her  breath. 

"When  I  went  up  to  her,  she  held  out  her 
hand  frankly  and  wished  me  good  morning. 
I  was  more  surprised  to  find  that  she  was 
real,  that  she  did  not  vanish  at  my  approach, 
than  if,  upon  the  instant,  a  dozen  phantoms 
had  leaped  to  take  her  place.  The  little  hand 

within  my  own  was  warm  and  white.    Here 
[219] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

83333338Sg3S3338333338SS33S83SSSS3833S3 

was  the  first  reality.  In  gratitude  I  bent 
over  it.  As  I  lifted  my  head,  bright  sunlight 
swept  in  from  the  open  side  of  the  room  and 
swathed  her  about  like  a  robe.  Color  became 
sound.  I  saw  then  their  relationship  to  fear 
lessness  and  joy. 

"With  the  new  clothes  I  put  on  a  new  life 
—  a  lighter,  freer,  happier  life.  The  black- 
robed  world  which  I  had  known  seemed  far 
away.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  have  been  a 
sort  of  slavery.  I  saw  it  fettered  with  re 
straints  and  prejudices.  I  saw  it  bowed  of 
back  and  weary.  I  drew  a  deep  breath  as 
of  one  pleasantly  released,  as  if  prison  doors 
had  opened  and  shown  me  light. 

"Laughing,  Asra  came  to  where  I  stood 
and  clasped  upon  my  upper  arm  a  bracelet 
of  opals. 

"Now   you   are  a  subject   of  the  Opal 
Isles!    Now  there  is  no  retreat.' 

"I  looked  down  upon  the  glittering  gems. 
Each  stone  was  emitting  sparklets  of  cold 
green  light,  as  if  in  anger  at  me,  an  inter- 
[220] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 


loper.  While  I  was  watching  almost  in  fear 
its  malevolent  shine,  a  servant  entered  and 
asked  Asra  if  she  wished  to  drive  as  usual 
at  that  hour.  She  looked  toward  me 
questioningly. 

'  '  Nothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure,* 
I  replied,  to  the  unuttered  question  in  her 
eyes.  'I  should  like  to  see  the  city  by  day.' 

"  As  we  drove  along,  I  saw  that  there  were 
other  cities  and  other  islands,  a  dozen  or 
more  perhaps.  They  had  been  hidden  from 
me  the  evening  before  by  the  luminousness 
of  the  night,  which  had  made  them  a  part 
of  the  distance.  Between  the  islands  little 
red-sailed  boats  fluttered,  but  nowhere  was 
the  long,  black  smoke-ribbon  of  a  steamer  to 
be  seen. 

'Where  are  the  Opal  Isles?'  I  ques 
tioned,  turning  to  Asra.  'I  never  heard  the 
name  before.  I  'm  sure  I  never  dreamed  of 
cities  of  white  marble  on  the  other  side  of  the 
earth.' 

"I  told  you  last  night,5  she  replied  eva- 
[221J 


sively,  'that  they  are  in  the  center  of  the 
shoreless  sea,  where  the  white  wave  circles.' 

"  I  fancied  then,  as  I  looked  out  across  the 
shining  water,  that  something  white  and 
ominous  like  foam  bounded  the  far  horizon. 
She  followed  my  glance.  When  again  she 
looked  toward  me,  I  thought  that  within  her 
eyes  I  read  fear,  but  the  look  vanished  as 
quickly  as  it  came,  and  the  old  serenity  took 
its  place. 

'That  does  not  tell  me  where  I  am  —  "  in 
the  center  of  the  shoreless  sea"  —  that  only 
helps  to  lose  me  the  more.' 

" '  What  difference  does  it  make  where  one 
is,  if  one  is  happy?  How  could  happiness  be 
situated  upon  a  map ! ' 

' '  But  are  there  no  steamers,  no  seafaring 
vessels?'  I  insisted,  looking  out  beyond  the 
islands  where  the  smooth  water  stretched  to 
the  horizon,  unfurrowed  of  prow  or  oar. 

"Of  course  not!    WThy  should  there  be? 
When  one  reaches  the  Land  of  the  Ideal, 
where  everything  is  exactly  as  one  would  have 
[222] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eseseseesee&eeeeeeseeeeesseeseesesssees 

it,  is  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that  any  one 
would  wish  to  go  away?' 

"'Very  true.    But  how  do  they  get  here?' 

"'How  did  you?' 

"But  I  mean  others.    How  do  they  get 
here?' 

'  There  is  only  one  road  that  can  lead  to 
a  land  like  this.    They  who  are  fit  find  it.' 

'"But  do  not  all  roads  lead  two  ways?' 

'"All  but  this  one.' 

"I  yield.    There  is  no  use  in  questioning 
the  Sphinx.' 

"We  were  driving  through  streets  lined 
with  marble  buildings  and  bordered  on  either 
side  by  smooth  parkways.  At  frequent  in 
tervals  along  the  greensward  were  statues, 
decorative  urns,  shrubs,  and  flowers.  Each 
building,  whatsoever  its  size,  extent,  or  pur 
pose,  was  a  little  work  of  art  and  formed  a 
helpful  part  of  the  general  grouping.  No 
where  was  there  anything  ugly  or  unsightly. 
Nowhere  was  there  a  false  color  or  an  imma 
ture  line.  It  was  as  if  the  people  had  worked 
[223] 


838S33SS333338388SS3SS833S33SSSS3333333 
THE  OPAL  ISLES 


together  with  the  single  aim  of  making  their 
city  faultless.  They  seemed  to  know  that 
ugly  things  are  immoral. 

"On  the  larger  buildings  I  noticed  that  the 
decorations  were  frequently  suggestive  of  the 
sea,  as  if  in  some  remote  age  the  city  had 
risen  from  its  depth.  Carved  upon  the 
marble  were  shells,  fish,  trailing  vines  and 
weeds  whose  graceful  sinuosities  told  of  the 
swinging  of  tides.  When  we  crossed  one  of 
the  long  spoke-like  streets  which  swept  from 
the  center  to  the  edge  of  the  island,  I  saw 
that  at  its  end,  upon  the  turf  that  met  it  at 
right  angles,  there  was  a  group  of  statuary. 
Asra  told  me  that  similar  groups  stood  at 
the  end  of  each  street  where  it  touched  the 
sea.  This  group  represented  dancing  nymphs 
pausing  suddenly  in  the  last  wild  round  of 
some  ecstatic  dance,  uplifted  to  toe-tips  by 
motion-mad  draperies,  with  muscles  tense, 
up-strained  to  slimmest  height,  heads  flung 
back,  holding  to  their  lips,  trumpet-wise, 
fluted  shells,  through  which  they  were  fling- 
[224] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss, 

ing  defiance  at  the  deep.  This  picture  stuck 
in  my  memory.  It  was  like  a  pin  prick  of 
fear.  In  the  smiling  water  it  made  me  see  a 
menace  and  a  danger. 

;<  There  were  buildings  in  the  city  which 
had  a  look  of  great  age.  They  were  yellow 
and  mottled  and  streaked  faintly  with  fine 
lines  of  gray.  Their  architecture  was  strange. 
It  was  simple  and  dignified,  but  as  alien  as 
the  flora  of  an  unknown  land.  The  light 
fell  upon  these  ancient  buildings  tenderly, 
with  none  of  the  harsh  obtrusiveness  of  un 
shaded  white.  It  was  like  a  retrospective 
thought  where  unpleasant  things  seen  in  the 
flattering  mirror  of  the  past  have  lost  their 
harshness.  High  above  the  city  rose  the 
grace  of  palms,  and  in  all  directions  shone 
blue  water. 

"Then  began  a  life  which  lasted  too  brief 
a  time  and  which  I  have  never  ceased  to  re 
gret;  a  life  where  all  the  standards  of  living 
were  reversed.  How  shall  I  tell  you? 

"Beauty,  not  gold,  was  king!  —  the  intelli- 
[225] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeeessessesseeeeesessesssesssseseessss 

gent  appreciation,  the  creation  of  beauty. 
They  called  it  the  spirit  of  life  made  visible. 
There  was  no  religion,  no  church;  in  their 
stead  they  had  placed  fearlessness  and  joy 
and  kindness.  If  you  can  imagine  what  the 
result  would  be  to  take  away  wealth  as  the 
objective  goal  of  a  nation's  endeavor,  you 
will  gain  an  idea  of  what  I  mean. 

"Gradually  in  our  walks  and  drives,  or  in 
our  sails  upon  the  water,  Asra  instructed 
me  in  the  new  life,  until  I  was  beginning  to 
forget  the  old.  At  least  I  had  reached  the 
point  where  there  was  no  desire  of  return.  I 
will  not  enter  into  tiresome  details  of  the 
island  people  and  their  ways,  because  the 
most  important  part  is  what  came  later  and 
its  effect  upon  my  life. 

"Perhaps  two  weeks  had  elapsed  since  my 
arrival  in  the  Opal  Isles  when  Asra  asked 
me  to  visit  with  her  a  little  rocky  islet,  the 
farthest  and  most  outlying  of  the  Opal  group, 
whence  a  fine  view  was  to  be  had  of  the  island 
cities,  and  the  great  sea  to  westward.  At 
[226] 


83383S838SSS8SS3388®83g83S8S838SS3838SS 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 


her  suggestion,  we  took  along  a  hamper  of 
food,  that  we  might  spend  the  day  if  we 
wished.  I  managed  the  red-sailed  boat,  and 
we  went  alone. 

"Rocky  and  grim  the  island  rose  from  the 
water,  like  the  summit  of  a  mountain  whose 
base  had  been  submerged  by  the  tides.  Near 
the  shore  on  one  side,  opposite  the  landing, 
stood  a  graceful  little  pavilion,  a  place  of 
rest  and  shelter  from  the  too  direct  rays  of 
the  sun.  Within  were  seats  and  a  table. 

"At  one  end  of  the  pavilion  the  rock  walls 
were  near  and  rose  high  above  its  roof.  In 
the  wind-sheltered  crevices  an  airy  blue 
flower  grew  that  resembled  the  anemone. 
There  were  occasional  ferns,  too.  Other 
vegetation  there  was  none.  The  shore  was 
strewn  with  dull,  copper-colored  seaweeds 
of  sharply  indented  edges.  They  resembled 
hairy  tentacles,  long  eager  sea-arms  reaching 
from  the  deep  to  drag  us  down. 

"Asra  wore  the  dress  in  which  I  had  first 
seen  her,  the  gold  open-work  corselet,  with 
[2271 


8S3833S338S8S3S333383388S33S333S83S33S3 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeseseeeeseessesessessessses&seeessses 

the  swinging  pink  stones  and  giant  rubies. 
As  I  looked  at  her,  the  light  struck  a  flame 
from  the  ruby  above  her  heart,  and  I  noticed 
that  its  color  was  that  of  the  crimson  sail.  I 
remembered  how  I  had  watched  it  upon  the 
misty  water,  and  how  I  had  thought  that  it 
was  the  color  of  life,  when  life  is  lived  bravely. 

"I  am  glad  of  your  mood  to-day,'  she 
said,  divining  my  thoughts.  'Why  can  you 
not  always  be  like  this?  Why  can  you  not 
always  be  dominant  and  fearless?  That  is 
the  way  to  live.  I  do  not  understand  you 
when  you  are  sad.' 

"'Nor  I  myself.' 

"'Why  is  it  then?' 

'The  mystery  of  things,  perhaps.  I  do 
not  know  exactly.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I 
wonder  where  I  am.' 

"'What  possible  difference  can  place  make 
if  we  are  happy?' 

: '  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  fear  the  day  will 
come  when  I  must  go  away.' 

"A  deep  light  shone  in  her  eyes.     The 
[2281 


C&C&e&GOO!^^ 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 


thought  flashed  through  my  brain  that  here 
was  such  a  face  as  dwells  forever  in  the 
depth  of  our  ideals. 

'  '  But  why  need  you  go?  What  is  there  in 
the  old  world  that  you  want?  Stay  here 
with  me/ 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Asra?'  I  cried,  all  but 
smothered  with  the  joy  that  burst  upon  my 
senses. 

'"Yes,  why  not?' 

'  Then  this  life  is  mine  forever  !  '  I  ex 
claimed,  hastening  toward  her,  while  she 
waved  me  gently  away. 

'  To  the  fearless  all  things  belong.' 

"  Asra!'  I  cried,  the  wild  joy  still  beating 
in  my  brain. 

"  Again  she  waved  me  away.  'See!'  She 
spread  a  paper  before  me  which  she  had 
taken  from  a  slender  chatelaine  swinging 
from  her  waist.  'This  is  the  permission 
for  me  to  choose  whom  I  wish  —  you  if  I 
wish.' 

;  '  And  you  do  wish,  Asra?  ' 
[229] 


y&3£&G&^^ 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

"Otherwise  would  I  have  told  you?  It 
depends  upon  you.  There  are  conditions. 
You  must  banish  fear,  doubt,  sadness,  for 
ever.  Do  you  understand?  If  you  were  un 
able,  it  would  mean  ruin  —  such  ruin  as  you 
do  not  know.  You  must  be  sure  of  yourself.' 

f '  Anything  that  lies  within  my  power  I 
will  do.  But  is  this  within  my  power?  Can 
I  be  sure?  Can  I  know?' 

"I  looked  out  over  the  sea.  The  broad 
light  fell  full  upon  it,  and  a  myriad  merry 
eyes  looked  back  at  me.  Its  voice  reached 
me.  I  listened.  The  meaning  was  unmis 
takable.  It  was  the  undying  laughter  of  the 
pagan  gods.  At  night,  too,  I  remembered,  its 
voice  had  reached  me;  and  I  shivered  to 
think  that  it  was  a  dirge  then,  that  it 
sang  an  eternal  dirge.  And  between  these 
two  voices  of  nature  —  the  two  voices  that 
call  forever,  the  laughter  and  the  dirge  — 
what  was  there?  The  ideal!  Yes,  the  ideal, 
desirable  and  unattainable,  forever,  between 
the  laughter  and  the  dirge. 
[230] 


8S33338833S38S3S38888883888838S38S38833 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

: '  Now  you  have  reached  it ! '  she  ex 
claimed,  breaking  in  upon  my  thinking.  '  You 
were  sure  to.  Now  you  will  conquer.  Put  the 
other  world  behind  you.  Annihilate  it  with 
your  fearlessness.  Be  mine ! ' 

"Her  face  inspirited  me.  Courage,  like 
wine,  strengthened  my  veins.  I  felt  that  I 
had  been  lifted  into  a  high  and  rarefied  ele 
ment.  The  moments  became  lyric  and  sped 
onward  with  the  lilt  of  song. 

! '  I  will  not  fail  you.  I  will  live  with  you 
upon  your  height  of  joy.  I  will  prove  that  I 
am  worthy.' 

"I  clasped  her  in  my  arms,  and  the  face 
which  wTas  like  the  realization  of  a  dream  was 
near  to  mine. 

"I  knew  it!'  she  exclaimed,  disengaging 
herself  gently  from  my  embrace. 

"For  the  moment  I  moved  in  an  element 
of  lightness  and  joy,  freed  from  fear,  super 
stition,  and  corroding  care.  I  began  to  re 
alize  that  joy  is  the  most  important  thing  in 

the  world,  the  most  pregnant  of  possibility 
[2311 


THE  OPAL,  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

and  power.  I  saw  a  new  world,  a  new  sky, 
and  a  new  earth.  Beneath  her  mighty  touch, 
I  saw  as  if  for  the  first  time  the  face  of  the 
morning  upon  the  level  water.  I  looked 
across  it.  My  fancy  peopled  with  triumphant 
phantoms  the  immeasurable  distances  that 
lay  beyond.  Worlds  on  worlds  sprung  up  in 
space  over  which  joy  floated  like  a  victorious 
banner  and  whose  roadways  were  threaded 
by  the  gleaming  feet  of  love.  I  saw  victo 
rious  and  triumphant  things;  white  arms 
up-flung,  red  lips  that  shrilled  in  song; 
bright  helmet  plumes  blown  back  like  flame; 
and  between  them  the  white,  glorious  face 
of  the  woman  I  loved.  Joy  had  strung  my 
mind  to  a  finer  pitch.  It  had  given  it  tem 
porarily  the  strength  and  the  suppleness  of 
steel.  Like  a  thin  and  glittering  sword  of 
unbreakable  metal,  joy  stood,  unsheathed 
of  grief  and  formidable  forever,  between  me 
and  the  destructive  forces  of  life.  Nothing 
now  could  diminish  my  power.  I  had  found 

that  for  which  we  are  created. 

[232] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeseessseeeseseseeseseeeeeeessssesseses 

"Wherever  the  mysterious  roads  of  life 
might  lead,  it  was  joy  that  waited  for  me 
at  the  end.  All  the  beautiful,  unalterable 
things  in  whose  creation  joy  had  been  dom 
inant  came  thronging  to  enrich  my  senses. 

'  You  are  right.  Joy  is  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world.  It  is  the  alkahest,  the  universal 
solvent,  in  which  beauty  becomes  fluid,  and, 
like  a  returning  tide  of  ocean,  flows  in  and 
makes  fecund  the  barren  coves  and  inlets  of 
the  soul.' 

' '  Put  away  all  that  you  have  known  in  the 
past/  she  answered  quickly.  'Forget  that 
there  was  ever  another  way  of  living,  another 
land.  Be  mine  wholly.  If  you  are  worthy, 
the  reward  will  not  be  slight.' 

'  The  past  is  as  if  it  had  not  been.  It  is 
a  tide  that  has  slipped  back  again  into  the 
deep.' 

"And  it  has  washed  away  the  writing  on 
the  sand.  Look!'  She  pointed  to  the  sea. 
'Like  its  deep  the  soul  is.  Nothing  can 
sully  it.' 

[233] 


occcccccccccccccccccccccccccccccc 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSi^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

"As  a  lark  rises  in  space,  its  only  connec 
tion  with  the  dim  earth  being  ribbons  of 
fluted  sound,  so  did  my  ecstatic  vision  rise 
and  hold  me  high  above,  where  petty  griefs 
could  not  pull  me  down  and  where  in  my 
focusing  point  of  light  I  could  draw  what  I 
wished  up  unto  myself. 

"I  promise,  Asra.' 

'Then  I  choose  you,'  she  answered  sol 
emnly,  a  strange  new  note  of  warning  ringing 
in  her  voice. 

"I  felt  as  if  the  horses  of  the  sun  had 
whirled  me  to  the  heights  of  light.  Swift  air 
lashed  my  ears.  Glory  inundated  my  senses. 
I  felt  the  vertigo  of  happiness.  I  saw  poise 
beneficently  above  me  then  the  vision  of  love 
—  the  glittering,  gold-cloud  vision  of  love  as 
it  is  painted  by  tone  in  the  overture  to  Lo 
hengrin.  When  it  passed,  the  elastic  swing 
of  my  vision,  which  had  attained  height  suffi 
cient  to  embrace  all  things,  brought  before 
me,  by  power  of  contrast,  the  black,  autumn 
coast  of  La  Bas  Bretagne,  as  I  had  seen  it 
[234] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888838 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

in  my  gloomy  childhood.  The  shore  was 
strewn  with  rocks,  like  this  one,  and,  perched 
upon  them,  much  as  was  this  gay  pavilion, 
stood  a  church,  somber  and  dark  with  age. 
Upon  the  tower  a  huge  dark  crucifix  stood, 
whose  black  shadow  fell  far  below.  I  saw 
again  that  cold  autumnal  sea;  the  slow- 
swinging  ridges  of  dim  water,  where  the 
black  cross  wavered,  and  between  which 
poised  black  boats,  over  whose  edges  from 
time  to  time  passed  sadly  the  cold,  silent 
creatures  of  the  sea.  The  bright  vision  faded. 
I  fell  from  my  height  of  joy.  It  was  as  if  I 
spun  down  infinitudes  of  space,  light,  like 
sound,  ringing  as  I  went. 

" '  Asra,  you  swept  me  with  you  to  a  dizzy 
height,  where,  for  a  few  moments,  I  saw  the 
splendor  of  the  worlds  unfurl.  But  I  can 
not  keep  it.  My  eyes  grow  dim;  my  senses 
are  blurred.  A  thousand  fears  assail  me.  I 
am  afraid  of  the  heights.  I  cannot  live  there 
calmly.  I  am  not  equal  to  it.' 

"'What  do  you  mean?'  Again  there  was 
[235] 


838338383833883383833333323833333833333 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

883833833338888888883838888888333338383 
that  solemn  note  of  warning  that  shook  my 
soul. 

; '  Do  not  fail  me  now.  You  do  not  realize 
what  it  would  mean.  You  do  not  dream 
what  would  come.' 

"Again  I  saw  the  cold  gray  sky  of  France. 
The  dim  water  ridges  again  swung  toward 
me,  and  upon  them  lay  blackly  the  shadow 
of  sorrow.  Doubts  and  fears  like  a  demon 
army  fell  upon  me.  They  overcame  me; 
they  crushed  me. 

"Asra,  what  of  that  dark  ocean  whose 
name  is  death?' 

*  What  of  that!'  she  replied  in  scorn. 
*I  do  not  fear  it.  Put  all  such  thoughts  be 
hind  you.  Be  brave!  Let  us  intoxicate  our 
selves  with  living,  with  fancies,  dreams,  ex 
quisite  sensations.  The  present  cannot  last. 
Therefore  make  it  perfect.  Since  Life  is 
a  guest  whom  we  may  not  ignore  if  we 
would,  does  it  not  behoove  us  to  be  royal 
entertainers?' 

"No  more  could  that  impassioned  voice 
[2361 


3S38383838888338338338883333383S33S3883 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888885838 

arouse  me,  nor  the  eyes,  that  filled  my  soul 
with  light.  The  earth  had  claimed  me.  Su 
pinely  I  fell  back  upon  its  breast.  Never 
again  could  she  lift  me  to  the  heights. 

"I  am  not  worthy  of  you,  Asra.  Can  you 
forgive  me?'  I  said,  folding  her  in  my  arms 
and  pressing  my  lips  to  hers. 

"When  my  lips  touched  hers,  a  change 
passed  over  her.  She  was  standing  close 
beside  me,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  be  distant, 
to  have  moved  away. 

'"Oh,  the  folly!  Why  did  you  not  listen 
to  me!  Why  did  you  not  bury  yourself  in 
your  dream  and  forget!  Why  did  you  not 
content  yourself  with  looking!  There  are 
things  made  only  to  dream  of  -  -  that  vanish 
at  the  touch.  Good  is  not  good  until  it  is 
useless,'  she  added  enigmatically. 

" '  The  ideal  must  never  be  reached.  Look ! ' 
Wildly  her  voice  rang  out. 

"I  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and 
her  pointing  hand. 

'"The  white  wave!' 

[237J 


3S38833838S8833S8838S3S8S3SSS8SS3S38S33 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

"The  sky-line  was  blurred  beneath  on- 
rushing  water,  white  and  thunderous  and 
fearful. 

'What  does  it  mean,  the  white  wave?' 
:'Did  I  not  warn  you?    Come,  save  your 
self  while  there  is  time!' 

"She  unclasped  the  bracelet  from  my  arm 
and  flung  it  down.  She  led  me  toward  the 
rock  that  towered  at  the  end  of  the  pavilion. 
After  walking  some  distance  around  its  pro 
jection  upon  the  sand,  we  came  to  a  dark 
and  narrow  opening.  There,  handing  me  the 
food  hamper,  she  said:  'Go  straight  ahead! 
Go!  Go!' 

:'But  you  —  will  you  not  go  too?     What 
of  you?' 

1 '  No,  no !    No  matter.    There  is  not  time 
to  tell  you.    Do  as  I  wish.    Go  quickly.' 

"I  looked  across  the  sea.  I  saw  the  tower 
ing  water.  Its  icy  breath  fanned  my  face. 
Its  pale  crest  reached  the  zenith.  Sprayed 
foam  beads  fell  from  it  like  marbles  and 
dotted  the  blue  ahead.  The  red  sail  of  our 
[2381 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

boat  fluttered  in  fear.  Without  pausing  to 
think  or  to  reason,  I  picked  Asra  up  in  my 
arms  and  darted  with  her  into  the  black 
opening.  It  was  the  work  of  an  instant. 
There  was  not  time  for  word  or  argument. 

"No  sooner  had  we  crossed  the  dividing 
line  than,  with  a  crash,  a  great  rock  suspended 
above  the  entrance  like  a  door  fell  and  shut 
us  off  from  sight  of  the  island  and  the 
glittering  wave  that  rolled  thundering  on. 
There  was  no  retreat.  There  was  nothing 
to  do  but  to  go  on.  I  had  come  from  the 
darkness  and  I  was  plunged  back  into  it 
again.  Neither  light  nor  sound  reached  us. 
Impenetrable  night  surrounded  us.  The  air 
however  was  fresh,  as  if  it  had  connection 
with  the  outside.  Beneath  my  feet  a  smooth 
roadway  of  stone  led  downward,  the  declivity 
being  sharp. 

"A  change  had  taken  place  in  Asra,  which 
the  excitement  of  the  first  few  moments  had 
prevented  me  from  noticing.  Her  body  had 

become  light  as  air,  and  cold  and  stiff.     I 
[239] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888838888888 

dreaded  to  confront  the  fact  and  acknowl 
edge  to  myself  what  had  happened.  It  was 
no  longer  the  body  of  a  woman.  It  was  no 
longer  my  beloved,  no  longer  Asra,  whom  I 
held  in  my  arms.  It  was  the  opal  which  I 
had  first  seen  between  the  moon's  ivory  horns. 
What  a  grief  was  this!  What  sorrow  filled 
my  soul !  It  was  useless  to  cry  out  or  remon 
strate.  The  change  which  I  had  seen  upon 
the  night  of  my  arrival  had  taken  place  again. 
I  consoled  myself  by  thinking  that,  with  day 
light  and  the  earth's  surface  regained,  she 
would  be  herself  once  more.  If  it  had  not 
been  for  this  thought,  I  could  not  have  gone 
on.  I  should  not  have  tried  for  life.  What 
would  there  have  been  to  live  for!  Why 
could  I  not  reasonably  expect  this?  I  had 
seen  it  happen  before.  Almost  beneath  my 
eyes  the  miracle  had  taken  place. 

"Lifting  the  mammoth  opal  to  my  shoul 
der,  the  easier   to   carry  it,  I   sped  swiftly 
down  the  smooth  stone  way,  hoping  every 
moment  for  a  ray  of  light  to  give  promise  of 
[240] 


88SggSS883S833S838ggS8S3S8S333333333383 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 


an  exit,  however  far  away.  When  I  reached 
the  bottom  of  the  declivity  and  found  level 
stone  beneath  my  feet,  there  was  still  no  sign 
of  light,  and  I  was  so  weary  that  I  put  my 
burden  down  and  slept.  When  I  awoke,  I  ate 
some  of  the  food  in  the  hamper  and  went  on. 

"I  must  have  been  deep  within  the  heart 
of  the  earth.  No  sound  nor  scent  of  living 
thing  came  here.  Yet  the  air  was  fresh  and 
free  from  the  damp  smell  of  prisoned  places. 
This  was  the  thing  that  gave  me  hope.  Some 
where,  not  far  away,  it  had  met  an  outer 
current  and  purified  itself.  The  wind  blew 
in  my  face.  It  seemed  to  come  from  the  di 
rection  in  which  I  was  going.  It  was  not  my 
own  motion  that  caused  it.  When  I  paused, 
I  could  still  feel  it  blowing  gently  in  my  face. 
That  gave  me  heart,  and  was  the  one  foun 
dation  for  hope.  Somewhere  in  the  darkness 
there  was  an  exit  through  which  the  fresh  air 
came. 

"  My  other  journey  beneath  the  earth  was 
as  nothing  in  point  of  time  in  comparison 
[241] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eseee&eeseeeseeeeeeeeeeeeeesseesees&ees 

with  this.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  plentiful 
supply  of  food  within  the  hamper,  I  must 
have  perished  before  I  reached  the  surface. 
As  it  was,  I  suffered  greatly.  I  was  exhausted. 
My  feet  were  blistered  with  walking  on  un 
yielding  stone,  and  my  arms  were  stiff  with 
the  strain  of  holding  securely  that  strange 
burden.  Hope  was  still  high  in  my  heart 
that  I  should  see  the  miracle  wrought  anew 
and  Asra  rise  from  her  opal  sleep.  Other 
wise  I  should  have  cared  for  nothing.  Life 
would  not  have  been  worth  the  saving. 

"It  was  night  when  I  came  to  the  surface 
of  the  earth,  or,  at  least,  darkness  had  fallen. 
I  found  myself  upon  a  tiny  island,  no  larger 
than  a  dot  upon  the  water,  evidently  a  coal 
ing  station  in  the  South  Pacific.  There  was 
but  one  building,  a  keeper's  cottage,  and  over 
it  floated  the  flag  of  France. 

"The  evening  was  not  old,  for  the  tide, 

which  indications  proved  to  have  been  low 

that  day,  was  creeping  in.    I  did  not  pause 

to  think  or  to  be  thankful  for  my  safety.    I 

[242] 


S33S888838S3SggSg83S8333SS338332S383338 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 


thought  only  of  Asra.  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
excitement  to  find  out  if  my  hope  was  to  be 
realized.  Would  she  awake  from  her  sleep 
and  speak  to  me?  Would  our  old  life  go  on 
as  before?  Carefully  I  deposited  the  precious 
burden  upon  the  ground.  The  moon  was  a 
slender  sickle  of  gold  and  lent  but  little  light. 
However,  there  was  a  luster  that  came  from 
the  water,  and  the  southern  stars  were  bright. 
By  their  aid  I  hoped  to  see. 

"Asra  was  wrapped  in  a  thick  white  tissue. 
I  remembered  that  it  had  the  same  billowy 
whiteness  as  the  covering  that  slipped  and 
fell  down  at  her  feet  like  foam  on  the  night 
of  my  arrival,  when  I  first  saw  her  standing 
by  the  moon's  ivory  horns.  I  thrust  it  aside, 
tearing  it  in  my  haste.  Before  me  lay  a 
radiant  opal.  From  it  colors  spouted  like 
jets  of  water  in  a  wonder-park. 

"The  quick  interchange  of  colors  blinded 
me.  I  could  distinguish  nothing,  peer  as  I 
might.  I  knelt  down  and  put  my  face  close 

to  the  stone  in  the  endeavor  to  see.    Then  it 
[243] 


:?«CCCCOCOS3CC^^ 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeseeseseseeeeessesseeesessseessesesss 

was  as  if  a  rain  of  light  sprayed  my  face.  It 
was  useless.  I  could  make  out  nothing.  Yet 
the  great  stone  preserved  perfectly  the  con 
tour  of  her  body.  Surely  I  should  be  able  to 
see  her  when  that  play  of  color  called  up 
by  the  light  combinations  of  the  night  sub 
sided.  As  I  stood  bravely  fortifying  my  soul 
with  hope,  defiant  in  face  of  discouragement, 
the  glamour  of  the  old  island  life  we  had  led 
together  touched  me  vividly,  and  for  an  in 
stant's  space  swung  me  to  the  heights  of 
joy.  The  stone  grew  pale  and  white.  I 
knelt  beside  it.  Then,  plainly  in  its  depth, 
I  saw  Asra  asleep,  in  her  gold  corselet  with  its 
little  pink  gems  and  giant  rubies. 

"'Asra!'  I  called.  'Awake!  We  are  safe 
now.  Awake  and  speak  to  me.' 

"Peering  closely,  I  saw  her  smile,  else  some 
ray  of  restless  light  touched  her. 

"In  memory  I  saw  once  more  the  silk- 
hung  chamber  with  its  golden  phantoms, 
and  I  grieved  to  think  that  I  might  never 
see  it  again. 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

"Asra!  The  white  wave  is  gone.  There 
is  no  sign  of  it  anywhere.  We  are  safe. 
Awake ! ' 

"For  answer  I  heard  the  sea's  undying 
pagan  laughter.  Asra  faded  away.  The 
stone's  brilliancy  revived.  The  mad  dance 
of  spouting  colors  began.  I  knew  I  could  not 
call  her  back.  I  flung  myself  down  beside 
her  and  buried  my  face  in  the  sand.  In  a 
frenzy  of  grief  I  determined  to  watch  until 
morning.  Then,  surely,  the  change  I  longed 
for  would  come.  I  could  not  give  up  hope. 
Hope  meant  life.  The  day  would  settle  it, 
and  as  I  wished.  I  lay  down  beside  her  and 
waited  for  the  sun. 

"  What  a  night  was  that !  It  was  the  long 
est  I  ever  knew.  At  times  weariness  over 
powered  me,  and  I  slept  to  wake  with  strung 
nerves.  It  seemed  as  if  the  day  would  never 
come.  I  thought  the  stars  of  a  dozen  nights 
rose  and  set.  I  thought  the  magic  in  which 
I  was  entangled  had  hindered  the  old  rota 
tion  of  day  and  night.  Every  change  in 
[245] 


88S3333333333833SS838838S8S838833883888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

the  night  sky  was  reflected  in  the  stone,  as 
if  it  were  the  pulse  of  night.  A  wisp  of  clouds 
across  the  zenith,  and  it  was  malevolently 
somber;  a  freshening  breeze  swept  them 
away,  and  fire  darted  from  it. 

"The  day  came,  gray  and  chill,  with  a 
pallid  mist.  I  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and 
shivering  with  cold.  Fear,  born  of  weariness, 
assailed  me.  The  earth-grief  fell  upon  me 
like  a  cloak.  I  ached  in  every  limb.  In  what 
a  fever  of  hope  and  fear  did  I  hang  over  the 
stone,  waiting  for  the  light  to  clear  sufficiently 
to  see.  When  it  did,  I  could  no  longer  see 
the  face  of  Asra,  only  her  gemmed  costum 
ing  and  the  dim  outlines  of  her  body. 

"Then  the  fear  that  she  would  fade  away 
forever  all  but  drove  me  mad.  I  forgot  hun 
ger,  weariness,  everything,  in  the  endeavor 
to  see  again  the  face  I  loved.  As  I  watched 
in  such  anxiety  as  they  know  who  have  loved 
deeply,  trembling  the  while,  as  if  from  fever, 
the  sun  sent  its  first  level  rays  across  the 
sea.  The  light  penetrated  the  stone.  There 
[246] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 


was  nothing  to  hinder  me  now.  I  could 
delude  myself  no  longer.  I  could  see  plainly. 
Asra  was  not  there. 

"Beneath  the  snowy  surface  I  could  dis 
tinguish  a  mingled  brightness  and  the  long 
gold  lines  where  her  body  had  been.  While  I 
was  looking,  these,  too,  melted  away  in  a 
dance  of  color.  Doubt  and  fear  had  killed 
her.  She  had  warned  me,  too.  She  had 
told  me  that  the  result  would  be  something 
undreamed  of. 

"If  for  an  instant  hope  sprang  glowing  in 
my  heart,  I  could  see  her  dimly,  but  when  it 
passed  she  melted  away  in  a  jeweled  mist 
and  left  me  alone.  In  one  telescopic  flash  of 
mind  I  realized  the  gloom,  the  barrenness,  of 
the  years  that  were  to  come.  I  realized  then, 
in  the  flower  of  my  youth,  that  the  best  of 
life  lay  behind  me.  From  what  I  had  known, 
the  paths  of  life  must  lead  downward. 

"Leaving  her  concealed  in  the  reeds,  I  went 
to  the  house.  I  had  been  correct  in  my  sup 
position  that  it  was  a  French  coaling-station. 
[2471 


SS3388338833338333S33338S838S888338S33S 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

The  keeper  was  greatly  surprised  at  the 
presence  of  a  stranger.  When  I  explained 
how  I  came,  he  was  more  surprised  and 
shook  his  head  doubtfully.  He  declared 
that  he  had  never  heard  of  the  Opal  Isles. 
He  could  not  explain  my  presence  in  any 
satisfactory  way,  however,  since  the  only 
steamer  which  had  been  expected  for  weeks 
was  due  that  day.  When  I  told  him  more  of 
the  islands,  with  their  twelve  white  cities,  he 
no  longer  contradicted  me.  He  said  nothing, 
but  he  looked  at  me  strangely.  He  thought 
that  I  was  mad  and  feared  lest  opposition 
arouse  my  fury.  I  knew  then  that  it  would 
be  useless  to  tell  of  my  experience  to  any  one. 
No  one  would  believe  it. 

"I  saw  that  the  keeper  would  be  relieved 
to  be  rid  of  me.  When  I  asked  him  for  a  loan 
to  defray  my  expenses  to  Melbourne  on  the 
expected  steamer,  giving  only  my  word  in 
pledge  of  refunding,  he  assented  readily. 
He  showed  a  like  willingness  to  oblige  me 
when  I  asked  for  a  certain  wooden  chest, 
[248] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888883 

some  six  feet  in  length,  which  I  had  seen  out 
doors  beneath  one  of  the  windows,  and  for 
which  I  had  no  ostensible  use.  He  was  will 
ing  to  do  anything  to  have  me  off  his  hands. 

"The  first  thing  I  did  when  I  reached  Mel 
bourne  was  to  cable  for  money  to  my  attor 
neys  in  Paris.  When  the  answer  came,  I 
proceeded  to  hire  a  steamer  and  to  equip  it 
for  a  cruise  of  indefinite  length.  After  procur 
ing  the  most  trustworthy  seamen  that  port 
afforded,  I  set  out  on  my  quest  of  the  Opal 
Isles.  The  captain,  an  old  man  whose  life  had 
been  spent  upon  southern  seas,  said  that  in  his 
youth  he  had  heard  of  wonderful  cities  of 
white  marble  beyond  the  last  known  land. 
Likewise  he  said  that  he  had  heard  that  no 
one  could  land  there,  because  they  floated 
always  out  of  reach.  Others  affirmed  that 
they  were  merely  icebergs  drifting  northward 
from  the  polar  circle. 

"I  was  glad  to  leave  the  low,  yellow,  sun 
baked  shores  of  Australia.  I  longed  for  the 
open  sea.  After  we  had  steamed  out  of  port 
[249] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

and  gone  some  distance,  sand  blown  by  a 
furious  wind  from  that  blistering  upland 
desert  which  makes  its  interior,  fell  upon  us 
and  dotted  the  sea  like  rain. 

"Straight  to  southward  we  steamed,  past 
Tasmania.  As  we  neared  it,  I  remembered 
that  it  was  spring  in  the  southern  seas  - 
November.  Tasmania  was  pink  with  orchard 
bloom.  After  we  passed  it  and  looked  back 
-  so  different  is  its  southern  coast  —  there 
was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  towering  columns 
of  black  basalt. 

"Now  the  roll  of  the  long  waves  struck 
us,  sweeping  always  from  west  to  east.  Tre 
mendous  waves  they  are,  whose  length  no 
one  may  measure.  On  and  on  they  sweep, 
unhindered  and  unchecked,  until  somewhere 
to  southward  they  girdle  the  earth. 

"Five  days  later  we  sighted  New  Zealand 
—  a  row  of  white  mountains  whose  bases  are 
buried  in  yellow  gorse.  When  we  came 
nearer,  we  saw  the  cherry  blossoms  and  the 
dog-roses  of  an  English  garden.  Then  again 
[250] 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 


to  southward  and  out  into  the  long  wash  of 
the  Australasian  waves.  Here  our  steamer 
disturbed  and  put  to  flight  a  myriad  sea-fowl 
resting  idly  upon  the  surface  of  the  water; 
down-white  albatross  with  wings  of  jet,  and 
Cape  pigeons  with  checker-board  backs. 
Land  was  definitely  left  behind  with  all  that 
we  had  known.  Before  us,  like  a  magic  path 
way  enticing  us  to  follow,  stretched  the  long, 
shining  roadstead  of  the  wind.  Swiftly  we 
slipped  down  it  and  away  toward  the  Polar 
seas.  At  night  the  Southern  Cross  flamed 
bright.  At  night  we  saw  the  vari-tinted 
stars  of  a  southern  zone.  We  were  in  a 
strange  world,  with  a  strange  sky  above  us. 
The  sea,  too,  was  strange.  Sometimes  it  was 
so  clear  by  some  little  island's  side  that  we 
could  see  the  mysteries  of  the  deep.  Some 
times  we  saw  algae  as  delicate  and  finely 
lined  as  carven  cameos,  and  sometimes  kelp 
so  long  it  mocked  the  sea-serpent  in  its 
length. 

"We  coasted  past  unknown  islands,  where 
[251] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
eeeseeeeeeeeee3seeesseeseeeeeeee3esees& 

bright  sea-growths  blazed  on  coral  reefs. 
We  saw  palms  that  looked  as  if  they  sprang 
from  the  water,  so  slender  was  their  foothold 
in  the  soil.  At  times  all  that  we  knew  of  an 
island  was  a  whiff  of  fragrance  that  blew 
across  our  faces  while  we  slept,  or  we  rose 
to  find  a  feathery  greenness  in  the  day.  Or 
at  dawn  we  coasted  near  enough  to  land  to 
catch  a  phrase  drawled  in  dull  semi-tones,  or 
to  see  the  sun  gild  sharply  the  bare  body  of  a 
woman  with  black  and  floating  hair.  Then 
we  came  to  barren  water  where  no  islands 
were,  turquoise  blue  and  chill,  upon  whose 
outer  edge  the  ice-fields  lay.  Then  back  to 
northward.  Round  and  round  we  swung. 
Thus  we  scoured  the  seas.  We  became 
known  to  every  merchantman,  to  every  sailor. 
At  first  they  thought  that  ours  was  a  like 
occupation.  When  they  found  out  the  differ 
ence,  they  looked  upon  us  with  disfavor.  Sto 
ries  were  circulated.  They  said  we  brought 
misfortune  and  foul  weather.  Wrecks  and 
sea  tragedies  were  laid  at  our  door.  They 
[252] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

confused  us  with  the  Flying  Dutchman. 
Gloom  settled  down  upon  us.  No  one  escaped 
it.  Even  I  was  losing  heart.  I  found  that 
we  may  not  live  other  than  our  fellows.  The 
punishment  for  being  different  is  not  slight. 

"Days  and  days  I  sat  on  deck  and  scanned 
the  horizon  with  my  glass.  When  weariness 
overpowered  me,  a  sailor  took  my  place.  Nor 
at  night  was  the  watch  relaxed.  Then,  too, 
a  sailor  sat  ready  to  lift  his  glass  at  call  of  a 
ray  of  light  and  sweep  the  sea.  Each  night 
when  I  went  to  bed,  it  was  with  the  hope  of 
finding  myself  beside  the  blessed  islands  when 
I  awoke.  That  failing,  I  consoled  myself 
with  the  possibilities  of  day.  My  life  trem 
bled  between  hope  and  disappointment. 
These  were  the  poles  of  my  narrowed  world. 

"There  was  one  room  in  the  steamer  espe 
cially  arranged  for  Asra.  No  one  entered 
there  except  myself.  It  was  lighted  with 
brilliancy,  that  no  material  aid  might  be 
lacking  in  reading  the  great  stone's  heart. 
There,  after  the  nerve-racking  day  on  deck, 
[253] 


sesesseessess&ses&ee&eeaseseesseessesse. 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
ssseseeeesssee&sseese&eeeseeseesess&ees 

I  spent  a  part  of  the  night,  peering  into  the 
long  gem  which  lay  upon  a  couch  of  white. 

"It  was  rarely  now,  and  only  under  mental 
stress,  that  I  was  able  to  glimpse  the  dear 
face.  To  do  so  it  was  necessary  to  shut  my 
self  off  for  days  from  contact  with  my  fellow 
men  and  by  imaginative  effort  and  strong 
stimulants  key  myself  to  a  fictitious  joy. 
Then,  for  one  moment,  the  fair  body  in  its 
golden  corselet  would  be  visible  in  all  its 
beauty,  and  the  face  smile  as  if  ready  to 
awake  from  sleep.  Nor  was  this  consolation 
of  great  duration.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
strongest  and  headiest  wines  failed  to  have 
any  effect  upon  me,  and  I  took  to  drugs.  The 
moments  of  vision  were  of  slighter  duration, 
the  body  less  distinctly  seen,  less  real,  and, 
it  seemed  sometimes,  less  lovely.  It  was 
all  going  from  me,  all  that  I  had  loved.  I 
watched  it,  but  I  was  powerless  to  hinder. 

"The  effect  of  the  drugs  failed  altogether. 
There  was  nothing  now  that  could  lift  me 
for  an  instant  to  the  old  height  of  joy  where 
[254] 


^tt&Z/SGOC&Z^^ 


THE  OPAL  ISLES 


Asra  and  I  had  lived  and  loved.  The  strain 
was  telling  upon  my  health.  Physical  weak 
ness  helped  to  make  the  moments  of  vision 
rarer.  Never  again,  Titan-like,  could  I  live 
with  Asra  upon  the  heights.  Weariness  and 
weakness  and  impotence  fell  upon  me.  The 
earth  called  me,  and  held  me  bound.  I  could 
only  look  at  the  opal  with  its  heart  of  flame 
and  dream  sadly  of  what  had  been.  I  could 
see  Asra  now  only  in  the  dream  recesses  of 
my  brain.  And  I  knew,  too,  that  this  power 
would  not  last.  Old  age  w^ould  blot  it  out. 
There  was  nothing  that  I  could  hold  arid  call 
my  own. 

"The  years  of  cruising  had  been  futile. 
They  had  brought  disappointment  to  my 
hopes  and  to  my  heart  the  certainty  that  I 
should  never  find  the  delectable  isles.  My 
strength  was  exhausted.  I  was  worn  out  with 
the  fruitless  quest.  I  gave  it  up  and  came 
here. 

"That   room   there,"    indicating    with    a 

wave  of  his  hand  an  upper  wing  of  the  house, 

[255] 


ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssgssssss 

THE  OPAL  ISLES 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS'^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

"I  built  for  Asra.  It  is  arranged  and  fur 
nished  like  the  room  in  which  I  found  her. 
There  she  has  lain  for  fifty  years  and,  as  I 
told  you,  I  do  not  know  whether  she  is  alive 
or  dead.  That  part  of  the  house,  as  you  may 
have  noticed,  fronts  the  sea,  that  she  may 
hear  always  what  she  loved  —  the  undying 
laughter  of  the  pagan  gods. 

"It  is  years  and  years  now  since  I  have 
seen  her.  I  am  old  and  I  have  not  the 
strength.  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  But 
I  know  that  she  is  there  —  asleep." 

A  year  later,  in  a  distant  city,  I  picked  up 
a  paper  and  this  head-line  caught  my  eye: 
"The  Strangest  Will  Ever  Filed."  It  was 
an  account  of  how  one  Gustav  Berengy,  a 
nobleman  of  the  south  of  France,  had  left 
his  wealth  to  a  gigantic  opal,  which  was 
shaped  like  a  woman's  form. 


256] 


THE   HOUSE   OF  GAUZE 

A   MOZART  FANTASY 

C'est  quelque  part  en  des  pays  du  nord  —  le  sais-je? 
C'est  quelque  part  sous  des  poles  aciereux, 
Ou  les  blancs  angles  de  la  neige 
Griffent  des  pans  de  roc  nitreux. 

EMILE  VERHAEREN. 

OOD  evening,  my  Lord  of  Mozart." 

The  voice  was  sweet  and  so  was  the 
title.  He  looked  up  in  surprise.  Midnight 
had  sounded.  He  had  thought  that  he  was 
the  only  one  awake  in  the  old  house  in  the 
Rauhensteingasse  with  its  myriad  rooms,  of 
which  he  rented  three.  His  wife  and  children 
were  abed.  Their  clothing  littered  the  room 
in  which  he  sat  and  added  to  its  disorder. 

He  remembered  the  beautiful  face  that 
was  bending  beside  him.    At  sight  of  it  the 
years  rolled  back  to  the  days  of  his  child 
hood.     Now,  as  she  stood  in  his  miserable 
[257] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
es&eeeseseseseeeseseeseseeeee&seeeesees 

room  and  called  him  "My  Lord  of  Mozart," 
he  jumped  up  in  readiness  for  her  behest. 

"I  have  come  for  you.  The  carriage  waits 
below." 

Something  snapped  in  his  head,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  rushed  through  gray 
leagues  of  space.  Then  he  mastered  himself 
and  followed  in  the  direction  in  which  his 
visitor  had  gone.  He  did  not  find  her.  She 
was  not  within  the  hall  nor  upon  the  street. 

There,  however,  a  carriage  waited,  its 
driver  by  the  door.  He  jumped  in  and  fell 
back  among  soft  cushions.  A  whip  curled 
in  the  air,  and  two  horses  dashed  through 
the  darkness.  They  left  the  city,  and 
reached  the  country.  The  speed  did  not 
lessen.  He  saw  in  fleeting  perspective  black 
hills  and  bare  trees  against  a  dull  silver  sky, 
where  pale  green  stars  shone.  After  they 
had  driven  at  this  pace  for  a  time,  they  came 
to  a  city.  He  did  not  care  what  city  it  was. 
He  only  knew  that  she  lived  here.  At  last 
he  should  know  who  she  was.  At  last! 
[258] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888828 

The  driver  dismounted  and  opened  the 
door.  With  his  whip  he  pointed  to  a  gate 
ahead.  Then  he  bowed,  leaped  to  the  box 
and  was  gone.  There  was  an  inscription 
upon  the  gate.  When  he  came  near,  he  read 
in  strange  and  antique  characters :  '  *  The 
Land  of  Music."  After  he  had  passed 
through  the  gate,  he  turned  to  have  another 
look  at  it.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen 
of  the  gate  through  which  he  had  entered, 
nor  of  the  country  beyond.  In  all  directions 
rose  the  roofs  and  towers  of  an  alien  city. 

He  found  himself  in  a  square  where  a 
number  of  streets  converged.  He  read  their 
names,  and  one  caught  his  fancy:  "The 
Street  of  the  Masters."  He  turned  into  it. 

"WThat  wonderful  dwellings  there  are  in 
The  Land  of  Music!"  he  exclaimed  joy 
ously,  forgetting  for  the  instant  the  one  he 
sought.  "I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!  Why 
could  I  not  have  come  here  sooner!"  he 
added,  his  lips  and  chin  trembling  piteously. 

"What  dwellings  the  masters  dwell  in!" 
[259] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS^SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 
He  looked  rapturously  down  the  vista  be 
fore  him.  "Here  are  tone-palaces  of  an 
Assyrian  magnificence,  silverly  translucent, 
of  the  most  gracious  symmetry  and  rising 
to  unthinkable  heights.  How  I  love  this 
land,  through  whose  gateways  I  have  just 
passed!  How  I  love  it!  It  is  as  if  it  were 
made  for  me.  It  is  a  world  of  crystal  and 
silver  and  white  onyx  and  pale  ivory.  I  can 
see  streets  of  dwellings  whose  harmonious 
lines  make  Grecian  temples  heavy;  dwell 
ings  of  such  fabulously  fragile  beauty  as  the 
frost  of  northern  nights  paints  on  the  win 
dows.  There  are  arches  springing  airily 
from  arches,  reproduced  again  and  again 
in  delicate,  diminishing  curves;  fagades  of 
silver  fretwork  of  the  palpitating  tenuity 
of  a  spider's  web;  forests  of  fair  columns, 
their  capitals  hung  with  leaves  of  light." 

Then    it   was    that    a   strange    inversion 
took  place.     This  became  the  reality,  and 
that  sad  other  world  the  dream.     He  cov 
ered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  gave  way 
[260] 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss^sss, 

to  a  storm  of  tears,  so  greatly  was  he  relieved 
to  be  rid  of  the  dream  where  he  had  known 
only  sorrow.  The  relief,  the  unspeakable 
relief,  to  know  that  it  was  a  dream!  His 
frail  figure  became  erect  and  proud,  as  he 
walked  along,  recognizing  the  dwellings  of 
his  friends.  "Here  are  the  houses  of  Gliick 
and  Sebastian  Bach  and  my  dear,  dear 
Haydn.  But  what  is  that  —  that  structure 
just  ahead?  Beethoven?  Yes,  Beethoven." 
He  looked  about.  Nowhere  could  he  see  any 
thing  that  out-topped  it.  "My  little  friend 
Beethoven!  How  kind  is  life  in  comparison 
with  the  hideousness  of  dreams!"  Again 
tears  dimmed  his  eyes.  "And  there  dwells 
Handel!  That  is  just  such  a  temple  as  the 
saints  would  build.  It  is  not  altogether 
original,  but  it  is  the  work  of  a  mighty  soul. 
If  it  does  not  stand  for  versatility,  it  stands 
for  strength." 

After  passing  the  stern  home  of  Handel, 
it  was  some  little  distance  to  the  next  dwell 
ing.     When  he  came  where  he  could  see  it 
[261] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 
THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 


plainly,  he  laughed  long  and  wildly,  just  as 
madmen  laugh.  "Who  ever  heard  of  any 
one  forgetting  his  own  home!  How  could 
that  black  dream  have  lasted  long  enough 
for  me  to  do  that?  Will  it  never  cease  to 
haunt  me?  The  idea  of  forgetting  my  own 
home!"  And  he  laughed  as  madly  as  before. 

Ahead,  upon  a  little  eminence,  not  quite 
in  a  straight  line  with  the  other  houses  of  the 
street,  he  saw  a  sumptuous  Italian  palace 
of  the  best  days,  built  evidently  for  love 
and  leisure. 

It  was  just  such  a  palace  as  Lorenzo  the 
Magnificent  dreamed  of  setting  among  the 
laureled  hills  of  Tuscany.  It  was  built  of 
resonant  crystal,  turreted  and  pinacled,  and 
provided  with  a  myriad  Venetian  balco 
nies  and  pillared  porticos.  It  was  not  of 
such  tremendous  height  as  the  dwelling  of 
Beethoven,  nor  of  such  vast  dimensions  as 
that  of  Handel,  and  yet  it  might  easily  be 
called  lovelier  than  either,  because  of  its 
charm  of  design. 

[262] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
esesseeeeseeeeeseese&eeeeeseeseseeeesss 

As  he  stormed  up  the  steps  impatiently, 
he  noticed  how  well  his  blue  satin  court 
suit  with  its  jeweled  stars  and  orders  and  his 
curling  golden  hair  suited  the  dwelling  in 
which  he  lived.  The  doors  swung  open  to 
receive  him.  Powdered  footmen  bent  before 
him. 

The  guests  were  waiting.  They  were  in 
their  places  ready  for  the  dance.  He  bowed 
before  his  partner.  Her  mouth  was  a  little 
red  dot,  and  her  eyes  were  two  deep  pools 
of  love.  They  swung  into  the  dance.  The 
music  uplifted  them.  As  changing  figures 
brought  them  together,  he  sensed  pleasantly 
the  delicacy  of  her  flesh  and  the  floating 
fragrance  of  her  hair.  As  he  bent  in  the 
dance's  slow  salutes,  his  eyes  embraced  soft 
shoulders,  white  breasts  upheld,  flower-like, 
by  stir!  corsages,  slim,  jewel-clasped  necks, 
and  twinkling  feet  beneath  lifted  lace. 

Cavaliers,  with  heads  flung  back  and 
hands  to  swTord  hilt,  like  true  old  French 
gallants,  danced  haughtily  out  to  meet  gay 
[263J 


3332333338383383333333338833S8838833833 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 


Watteau  ladies.  Then  what  smiles,  what 
courtly  bows,  what  languishment,  what  bird- 
like  gayety!  In  the  swinging  whirl  he  saw 
court  trains  outfloat  in  satin  splendor,  and 
the  backward  tilt  of  high-coiffured  heads. 
The  floors  and  the  mirrored  walls  reflected 
the  dancers,  redoubling  their  graces  in  fluent 
light.  He  caught  the  interchange  of  stolen 
glances.  He  saw  delicate  fingers  press  re 
sponsive  hands.  He  saw  the  amorous  lean 
ing  of  fond  bodies  and  the  pledge  of  lifted 
eyes.  The  air  was  electric  with  love.  He 
drank  it  in  eagerly,  greedily.  It  was  for 
this  that  he  had  thirsted.  Again,  for  an 
instant,  the  black  dream  swept  down  upon 
him  and  blotted  the  pageant  out.  When 
it  passed  and  he  found  anew  the  bright 
reality,  he  grasped  his  companion  in  his 
arms  convulsively  and  buried  his  face  in  her 
breast  to  forget. 

"To  the  banquet  hall,  good  friends!    To 
the  banquet  hall!"     he  commanded,  when 

he  lifted  his  face.    He  leaped  to  the  center  of 
[264] 


83S333S3S33333gS33g83S33333S3S833SSgS83 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

the  room,  silenced  the  orchestra,  and  flung 
up  his  arms  to  signal  attention,  uncontrol 
lable  laughter  bubbling  on  his  lips  — 

"  Wine  or  woman,  which  is  sweetest, 
Tell  me  which  for  pleasure  's  meetest, 
Which  from  care  can  take  us  fleetest?  " 

he  sang,  as  he  danced  along. 

Silks  swished  past  him.  Fans  fluttered 
like  butterflies.  Little  slippers  clicked  in 
merry  flight.  Women  drifted  past  with 
heightened  color  and  dream- veiled  eyes. 
He  heard  their  low  laughter  and  knew  that 
they  were  being  led  with  a  caress. 

As  he  entered  the  banquet  room,  a  forest 
of  upstretched  arms  whose  hands  held  each 
a  wineglass  greeted  him:  "Long  life  to  the 
Lord  of  Mozart!  The  Lord  of  Mozart!" 

Amber  and  crimson  wine-light  flecked  faces 
and  breasts  and  lifted  arms,  and  fell  in  long 
broken  ribbons  upon  the  walls. 

"Now  find  out  which  one  is  sweetest!'* 
they  chorused. 

"I  pledge  a  health  to  each  lady,"  he  gal- 
[265] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 


lantly  responded,  bowing  before  each  in 
turn.  "  In  this  way  I  shall  find  her,  for 
surelv  she  is  here."  When  he  had  made  the 

• 

rounds  and  satisfied   himself   that   she  was 
not,  he  beckoned  a  young  cavalier  to  him. 
"Why  is  she  not  here?" 
"She?     She    never    takes    part    in    our 
revels." 

"But  she  promised  to  meet  me  here." 
"Impossible,  my  lord;  she  is  queen." 
"And  I  —  am  I  not  king?"    he  responded 
haughtily.     Then,  repenting  of  the  words, 
he  flung  his  arms  tenderly  about  the  boyish 
figure. 

"Ah,  my  boy,  you  do  not  know  what  love 

is  —  its    torture,  its    longing,  its    insatiable 

longing.     He  noticed   then  how  the  young 

cavalier  resembled   his  youthful  self  before 

grief  and  disappointment  had  lined  his  face 

and  lighted  their  wild  light  in  his  eyes. 

"Goto  my  generals  !    Summon  the  army  !  " 

Doors  slid  back,  transforming  the  pleasure 

palace  into  a  hall.     The  dancers  arranged 

[266] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
esesesssessesseeseeeseseeesseeessssesss 

themselves  on  either  side.  Between  them 
the  soldiers  passed.  And  what  soldiers! 
They  were  small  and  supple  and  swift.  They 
flew  rather  than  walked.  Each  one  was  a 
black  music  note,  spurred  and  bent  and 
vicious.  From  their  legs  black  needle-like 
stilettos  pointed.  They  were  a  destructive, 
unstemmable  torrent.  When  the  last  one 
had  crossed  the  threshold,  and  they  stood 
drawn  up  in  readiness  before  it  —  "After 
them,  my  friends!"  he  ordered.  The  rev 
elers  obeyed.  Black  horses  waited  at  the 
door.  They  leaped  upon  them  and  swung 
through  the  night. 

In  the  Land  of  Music  it  is  always  night  — 
night  lighted  by  feverishly  bright  stars  and 
the  rising  and  setting  of  strange  moons. 

Upon  black  and  shining  backs  poised 
delicate  figures;  outflying  manes  revealed 
the  clasp  of  jeweled  arms,  and  beside  the 
wild  heads  of  the  horses  shone  the  faces  of 
musical  nymphs.  The  streets  through  which 
they  passed  were  no  longer  lined  with  mag- 
[267] 


Z&&G&X&!X^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
ssssssssssssssssssssssi^ssssssssssssssss 

nificent  buildings.  They  had  entered  the 
oldest  part  of  the  Land  of  Music,  which  is 
sparsely  settled  and  where  the  dwellings  are 
quaint  and  ancient.  Here  a  primitive  people 
had  lived. 

"What  a  ridiculous  army!"  roared  the 
Lord  of  Mozart,  who  led  the  cavalcade, 
standing  upon  his  horse  and  pirouetting. 
"Look!  my  good  friends!  Look!"  He 
pointed  ahead. 

There  they  were,  gathering  about  a  struc 
ture  of  considerable  extent,  an  army  of 
dwarfs,  with  big,  oblong,  melon-like  heads. 
They  carried  stilettos  fringed  with  darts, 
but  they  were  slow  of  motion  and  aged. 
They  did  not  seem  to  have  strength  enough 
to  carry  about  their  cumbersome  heads. 
And  in  numbers  they  did  not  reach  the  half 
of  the  army  of  Mozart. 

"So  that's  our  enemy!"    he  exclaimed, 
convulsed  with  laughter,  pirouetting  again 
upon  his  horse's  back.     "We'll  make  short 
work  of  them.    Quick,  upon  them!" 
[268] 


88S333333383g3S33333S8SSSS38S33388S3S38 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 


Like  a  cloud  of  black  locusts,  the  vicious 
army  of  Mozart  fell  upon  them.  They  cov 
ered  them  from  sight.  They  smothered 
them.  They  dazed  them  by  their  numbers 
and  agility.  They  killed  them. 

"Now  to  the  house!"  he  called.  "The 
way  is  clear."  His  eyes  shone  like  steel, 
and  spots  of  fever  dotted  his  cheeks.  He 
knew  that  within  that  ancient  dwelling  was 
the  lady  of  his  heart. 

"Come,  my  friends!"  They  rode  across 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  ancient  soldiers, 
laughing  at  their  ugliness.  The  ladies  pulled 
high  their  silken  trains  lest  they  be  spotted 
with  dust  and  blood. 

"My  generals,  there  within  sits  the  lady 
of  my  heart.  Bring  her  out  and  place  her 
upon  the  horse  beside  me." 

The  lady  they  lifted  to  the  saddle  in  no 
way  resembled  the  gay  court  beauties.  In 
her  bearing  there  was  something  noble. 

"Back  to  the  palace!" 

Like  magic,   they   covered   the   distance. 
[269J 


•3&yysa&zx&^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
eseseeseessessesessseessesees&seeesesss 

In  front  of  the  entrance,  the  Lord  of  Mozart 
halted  and  stood  erect  in  his  stirrups,  bowing 
majestically  to  right  and  left. 

"I  thank  you,  good  friends,  for  your  aid. 
And  now,  good  night.  I  go  to  celebrate  the 
conquest  of  love." 

"May  joy  be  with  you!"  they  called  in 
return,  waving  their  hands  as  their  galloping 
horses  disappeared  in  the  brightness  of  the 
street. 

"Why  did  you  try  to  conquer  me  by 
force?"  she  asked,  facing  him  in  the  great 
chamber  into  which  he  had  taken  her,  and 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  "Do  you  not 
know  that  it  is  really  by  my  will  that  I 
have  come  —  to  save  you  from  humiliation? 
Do  you  not  know  that  you  can  have  no 
power  over  me?" 

"Am  I  not  King!  I  have  power  over 
everything." 

"You  do  not  know  who  I  am." 

"How  can  that  matter,  since  I  love 
you?" 

[270] 


883S333338333SS3333333SSS8SS33SSS383333 
THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

83388S3S38S8S8S88SSg338S3S8S8883SSSS833 

"I  am  the  Lady  Melodia.  I  cannot  be 
long  to  any  one.  I  belong  to  all.  I  am  queen 
absolute." 

"Did  I  not  know  that  we  are  one!"  he 
answered,  bowing  in  mock  humility  to  the 
stately  figure.  "Have  you  not  come  to  me 
of  your  own  will?  Is  it  not  you  who  guided 
me  here?" 

"That  is  why  your  deed  to-night  is 
shameful." 

"But  I  need  you  so!"  he  continued  pite- 
ously.  "Surely  you  will  not  leave  me  when 
I  need  you  so.  Let  me  tell  you;  then  you 
will  pity  me.  I  am  haunted  by  a  hideous 
dream.  (I  never  told  any  one  before.  I  con 
ceal  it  carefully.)  Sometimes  I  cannot  tell 
which  is  real  —  this  life  here,  or  the  dream. 
I  have  the  strange  consciousness"  -he 
looked  about  timidly,  like  a  little  child,  lest 
some  one  hear  his  secret,  then  drew  her 
close  to  him,  his  eyes  dark  with  fear  — 
"that  I  lead  two  lives.  One  is  in  another 
world,  a  world  of  hard  material  facts,  where 
[2711 


8388838gg®g3gS3833S33883SSS333S33333333 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
SS3S3SS3383333833S833333333S3S33S383333 

by  the  proper  grasping  of  the  facts  one  can 
have  every  joy,  every  comfort.  But  there 
I  cannot  grasp  anything.  I  cannot  accustom 
myself  to  living.  I  cannot  feel  at  home.  I 
cannot  understand  how  men  buy  prosperity. 
I  cannot  learn  anything.  I  cannot  cope  with 
people.  They  beat  me  at  every  turn.  I 
lack  something  —  that  fiber  of  the  common 
place  that  contends  and  wins.  There,  in 
that  black  dream-world,  I  cannot  do  the 
simplest  things.  And  because  I  cannot,  I 
suffer  —  suffer  poverty  and  hunger.  When 
I  buy  things  honestly  with  my  brain,  when 
I  win  success,  I  cannot  grasp  it.  Everything 
slips  away  and  leaves  me  alone  —  to  know 
the  want  of  beggars.  Your  presence  alone 
dispels  that  horror  and  makes  me  know  that 
this  is  real,  that  I  am  real,  and  that  here  I 
belong." 

Like  the  face  of  a  mother  in  tenderness 
was  the  face  of  the  Lady  Melodia,  as  she 
murmured:  "Dear  one!  Dear  one!" 

"Your  face  lights  that  black  dream-world 
[272] 


•tt/X&SGG&ZG^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

888888888888888888888888888888888885883 
like  a  star  and  rests  upon  my  soul.  But 
there  it  paralyzes  the  power  of  action." 

"But  are  you  not  willing  to  suffer  the 
dream  for  the  sake  of  this?"  She  indicated 
the  glittering  chamber. 

"If  I  could  always  remember  that  it  is 
a  dream,"  he  answered  piteously.  "But 
they  —  other  people  —  have  had  real  things, 
while  I  have  had  only  the  glitter  of  foam. 
I'll  tell  you  what  it's  like,"  he  added  boy 
ishly.  "You've  seen  a  bottle  dropped  into 
water  where,  instead  of  standing  upright, 
it  wavers  about,  unable  to  keep  balance? 
That  is  what  I  am  without  you.  Does  not 
that  justify  what  I  did  to-night?  Does  not 
that  make  it  right?" 

Pity  had  taken  the  place  of  resentment 
when  she  answered:  "Yes,  perhaps.  But  you 
see  you  cannot  keep  me.  A  Titan  could  not 
do  that." 

"But  I  am  more  than  a  Titan." 

"Once  I  was  wholly  yours  —  " 

"When?" 

[273] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
sessseesssss&esseeseeeseseeeeeseeeses&s 

"In  your  youth.  Then  I  was  yours  un 
asked.  Before  you  had  grown  old,  before 
life  had  marred  you." 

He  looked  at  himself  in  a  mirror.  It  was 
true  that  there  was  no  sign  of  youth  in  the 
face,  nor,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  was  there 
any  sign  of  age.  It  was  the  face  of  one  whom 
some  terrible  passion  had  consumed  and 
burnt  out  without  materially  ageing. 

"Why  did  you  leave  me?" 

"Because  you  were  false  to  me." 

"How  could  I  be  false  to  you  when  I 
have  had  no  pleasures  apart  from  you?" 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  you  could  not 
live  two  lives  —  the  life  of  a  man  and  the 
life  of  a  god?" 

"You  mean  love?  That  is  the  only  thing 
that  makes  the  black  dream  tolerable.  It  is 
like  the  honey  the  stinging  bee  carries.  It 
is  the  gem  in  the  head  of  the  toad." 

"That  is  why  I  said  you  were  false  to 
me,"  she  replied,  anger  brightening  her 
eyes. 

[274J 


eS888SS8888S88g888888888888888888888888 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 


"But  now  I  love  only  you.  Surely  you 
know  that." 

"How  can  that  right  the  matter?  I  can 
not  belong  to  any  one  in  whose  heart  I  have 
been  supplanted  for  an  instant." 

"You  will  reconsider  when  you  know  that 
I  am  worthy.  Besides,  there  is  no  one  else 
who  is  worthy.  Perhaps  you  have  not  read 
my  heart.  I  tired  of  that  other  —  of  love 
—  long  ago,  as  I  have  tired  of  every  real 
thing.  It  became  like  a  too  sweet  honey. 
It  sickened  me,  it  smothered  me;  it  made 
me  struggle  to  be  free.  It  made  me  long  to 
feel  flying  in  my  face  the  bright  insubstantial- 
ity  of  dreams.  And  you  are  my  brightest 
dream,"  he  said,  lifting  the  long  hair  and 
burying  his  face  in  it. 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  —  " 

"Wait!  Do  not  decide  now.  You  do 
not  know  me.  There  are  powers  you  have 
not  suspected.  I  will  make  you  forget.  I 
will  take  you  where  oblivion  is  deepest.  I 

will  prove  that  I  am  worthy.     You  shall 
[275] 


&^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

888888888888888888883888888888888888883 

never  leave  me.  What  care  I  for  law  —  for 
right !  I  will  take  you  where  there  is  no  law, 
no  right,  except  my  will.  I  will  isolate  you 
with  myself  so  far  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  the  real  that  thought  cannot  return.  We 
will  go  beyond  the  farthest  edge  of  dreams. 
Come  to  the  window  where  you  can  see  the 
exterior  of  the  palace.  Now  watch." 

She  saw  the  crystal  walls  glow  as  if  a 
flame  dwelled  within  them,  while  from  tower 
to  basement  fell  a  silver  veil  bordered  with 
diamond  sound-crystals,  which  floated  grace 
fully.  Then  the  veil  rose  and  vanished;  the 
flame  dimmed  and  faded  until  the  palace 
became  as  frail  as  if  made  of  ashes.  From 
this  ashen  palace  rose  a  diaphanous,  white 
gauze,  pearl-encrusted  palace,  mirroring 
itself  in  a  lake  of  ice.  The  man  beside  her, 
too,  had  changed.  He  became  well-nigh 
transparent.  He  looked  like  a  spirit  made 
visible.  His  hand  was  frailer  and  whiter  than 
the  gauze  upon  which  it  rested.  His  eyes 
were  terrible  in  their  concentrated  power. 
[276] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
seeesessssesesseeesesesseesesessseessss 

"Now,  see  where  I  have  taken  you!  Now 
do  you  think  that  there  is  any  return?  See 
that  avenue  of  white  ferns  there,  from 
which  the  frost  particles  fall  like  rain.  Can 
you  leave  me  now?  Do  you  want  to?  Look 
at  that  frozen  sea  to  the  north,  encrusted 
with  opaque  crystals.  Note  its  greenish 
pallor.  You  are  wondering  what  is  flying 
across  it,  are  you  not?  I  can  see  it  in  your 
eyes.  You  are  saying  to  yourself:  'What 
are  those  creatures  which  have  no  form  and 
yet  have  every  form?'  Watch  them  awhile 

-  watch  them !     My  love,  those  changeful 
and  indeterminate  contours  are  the  unem- 
bodied  stuff  melodic  dreams  are  made  of. 
They  are  the  world  of  my  soul  made  visible 

-  the  soul  of  a  creator.    Now  do  you  guess 
where  you  are?     If  you  do,  you  know  that 
there  is  no  return.     They  who  come  here 
cannot  go  back. 

"Watch  the  far  horizon  for  a  moment! 
There  —  that  light.    There,  every  once  in  a 
while,  bright  caravans  swing  to  sight,  re- 
[277] 


•ttyyz/x&3&^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

833883883388333838883333388883888833883 
main  visible  for  a  time,  like  ships  upon  the 
desert,  flooding  the  sea  with  a  regretful 
splendor,  then  disappear.  But  you  can 
never  reach  them,  my  love,  never  signal 
them  and  go  away  from  me.  Do  you  hear 
that  sound?  But  you  do  not  know  what  it  is, 
Sweet,  else  you  would  not  listen  so  calmly. 

"High  above  that  frozen  sea  (in  whose 
heart  sleep  a  million  terrors  —  that  frozen 
sea,  which  is  genius),  so  high  that  your  eye 
cannot  see  it,  a  brilliant-winged  bird  hovers 
and  flings  down  the  fragment  of  a  song.  The 
bird  is  love.  When  its  song  reaches  the  sur 
face  of  that  frozen  sea,  it  is  shivered  and 
broken  like  a  crystal,  and  the  fragments  roll 
on  and  on  until  they  reach  my  gauze-built 
palace  and  make  it  tremble  pitifully.  Am  I 
not  the  first  of  kings,  the  wonder  king!  Who 
can  resist  me!  Not  you!"  he  answered, 
kissing  her  impetuously. 

"Do  you  never  tire  of  mad  improba 
bilities?" 

"Tire  of  them!     Does   God  tire  of  his 

[278] 


•z&y&x&os&x^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

Heaven?  The  madder  they  are,  the  more 
they  please  me.  I,  too,  am  a  god.  I  have 
made  a  heaven  of  my  own.  I  can  love  only 
a  self -created  world  where  nothing  bears  the 
mark  of  materiality,  of  other  people's  com- 
monplaceness.  In  my  world  matter  takes 
the  form  of  my  slightest  wish.  I  am  the 
center  about  which  change  revolves.  I  am 
the  force  which  projects  form."  He  clapped 
his  hands.  "Let  the  palace  be  lighted!" 

Across  the  floor  crept  the  wan  shimmer  of 
the  will-o'-the-wisp,  and  down  the  walls  the 
green  phosphoric  glow  of  fireflies.  Then,  at 
a  motion  of  his  hand,  the  gauze  palace  faded 
to  a  cold  ethereal  splendor  until  it  seemed 
to  the  Lady  Melodia,  in  her  fear  and  won 
der,  that  it  was  little  more  than  a  vague  radi 
ance  against  the  snow-lit  water.  Above,  three 
moons  poised,  swinging  melodiously  into 
place,  streaking  it  with  opalescent  light. 

"Will  you  deign  to  accept  my  arm?"  he 
asked  mockingly.  As  he  bent  before  her,  she 
saw  that  he  had  become  as  ethereal  as  his 
[2791 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 
house  of  gauze.  His  face  had  an  unearthly 
beauty,  and  his  eyes  were  awful  in  their 
concentrated  splendor. 

They  left  the  chamber  and  entered  a  hall, 
in  whose  center  a  staircase  descended  for 
two  stories.  Upon  this  staircase  came  and 
went  an  endless  procession  of  pale  and  regal 
women,  dull  gems  upon  their  breasts  and 
brows. 

With  a  gesture  of  offended  dignity,  the 
Lady  Melodia  turned  as  if  to  leave  the  hall. 

"There  is  no  cause  for  anger,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  love  them,  of  course.  Are 
they  not  made  for  love?  But  in  loving 
them,  I  have  dreamed  only  of  you." 

"  Your  love,  evidently,  has  not  made  them 
happy,"  she  retorted  scornfully.  "Why  are 
their  eyes  so  full  of  grief  and  regret? 
And  why  are  they  silent?  Do  they  never 
speak?" 

"They  are  not  real,  any  more  than  I  am. 
They  are  prisoned  in  the  crystal  prison 
of  a  melody.  They  are  the  women  who  rise 
[280] 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

from  the  whirlpools  of  music.  Like  the  Rus- 
salka,  they  flutter  over  the  abyss.  I  created 
them  to  live  on  the  boundary  line  of  sound 
and  silence." 

"That  is  cruel.  Give  them  life.  I  com 
mand  you!" 

"In  every  artist,  my  love,  there  is  the  soul 
of  a  Nero  who  longs  for  the  burning  of 
Rome.  They  who  love  beauty  are  always 
cruel." 

"But  this  is  monstrous.  I  will  not  per 
mit  it." 

"  I  am  no  crueler  to  them  than  life  has  been 
to  me.  Like  them,  I  have  always  lived  on 
the  boundary  line  of  two  worlds.  In  neither 
have  I  been  at  home.  I,  too,  am  not  real. 
Why  do  you  not  pity  me?  Am  I  not  dearer 
to  you  than  they?" 

"What  are  they  begging  for  so  piteously? 
See  their  outstretched  hands!" 

"For  life,  to  break  the  melody  in  which 
they  are  encased  and  give  them  life." 

"And  you  can  refuse?" 

[2811 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 
eeseeeesesseeseessesssessessseseeeessss 

"Is  not  that  just  what  life  has  refused  me? 
Besides,  I  love  them  best  as  they  are.  Can 
you  not  see  what  they  are  to  me?  They 
are  my  soul's  life.  They  are  the  myriad 
lives  that  my  brain  lives.  Look!  As  they 
strain  earthward  with  bitter  yearning,  thirst 
ing  for  life,  for  the  substantiality  of  joy,  of 
love,  can  you  not  understand  how  they 
inspire  me,  how  they  make  me  what  I  am? 
Their  futile  frenzy  touches  my  brain  to  fire. 
It  pours  a  fury  into  my  soul  and  strings  my 
nerves  to  mastery  and  to  creative  power. 

"Ah,  you  do  not  know  —  no  one  will  ever 
know  —  what  they  have  been  to  me,  what 
stories,  what  caprices  they  have  breathed 
into  me.  Their  mute  eloquence  has  told  me 
tales  of  wild  longing,  of  unspeakable  desires, 
of  unknown  loves  —  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  love  them.  They  set  a-tingle  in  my  brain 
the  centers  of  creative  fancy.  They  swing 
me  into  the  harmonies  of  the  silences.  They 
project  upon  the  canvas  of  my  soul  melodic 
visions.  I  live  with  the  unexpanded  vigor 
[282] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss. 
THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

of  their  prisoned  lives.  Their  desires  are 
realized  in  me. 

"Ah!"  he  continued,  becoming  remi 
niscent  and  talking  as  if  to  himself,  "I  have 
had  strange,  strange  loves  indeed,  which 
not  even  tone-magic  can  picture,  beyond  the 
limits  of  time  and  space.  I  have  always 
been  the  king  of  bons  viveurs.  I  have  been  a 
pagan  exquisite,  a  Lucullian  epicure!  How 
I  have  despised  those  who  had  only  money 
to  enjoy  with!  What  miserable  beggars  are 
they!  What  has  gold  to  do  with  the  brain? 
It  is  the  brain  that  enjoys. 

"But  to-night  is  the  crowning  night.  To 
night  I  have  you.  To-night  I  have  for  a  love 
her  whom  no  mortal  has  dared  to  love  be 
fore.  In  your  eyes  I  shall  not  read  the  mem 
ory  of  other  lovers.  Their  ghosts  cannot 
come  between  us.  Upon  your  lips  I  shall 
not  taste  the  savor  of  their  kisses.  Your 
sweetness  has  been  reserved  for  me.  What 
matters  it  that  I  have  made  a  bonfire  of  my 

soul  to  buy  you !    If  I  had  ten  lives,  I  would 
[283] 


"SG&G&XG^^ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

ssssesessessssseesssesseseeeseeeeeseeee 

do  the  same.  This  way!  This  way!  There 
is  another  room.  This  room  was  made  for 
you.  No  other  woman  has  entered  it.  It 
is  a  strange  room.  It  is  lighted  only  by  the 
stars,  those  discreet  stars  which  have  shone 
upon  the  amorous  sleep  of  lovers." 

No  sooner  had  they  crossed  the  threshold, 
however,  than  the  Lord  of  Mozart  began  to 
tremble  violently.  Beads  of  sweat  dotted 
his  brow.  He  put  out  his  hands  gropingly, 
as  do  they  who  cannot  see. 

"The  dream!  Again  the  dream!  Oh, 
keep  it  from  me!  Banish  it  with  your  kisses! 
Banish  it  with  your  mouth  and  the  clasp  of 
your  arms.  How  is  it  possible  that  I  suffer 
from  a  horror  like  this  in  the  splendid  palace 
of  my  genius?  I  cannot  see  you,  but  I  know 
that  you  are  here.  I  see  only  the  dream.  In 
the  dream  I  am  dying,  dying  miserably,  in 
a  shabby  rooming-house  in  old  Vienna. 
Through  a  little  window  I  can  see  that  it  is 
misty  and  gray  outside,  and  that  a  cold  rain 
drizzles  down.  In  the  room  where  I  lie 
[2841 


g8S8S88383SSS333Sg33SS333g3S883SS3S3383 

THE  HOUSE  OF  GAUZE 

8g3gSS38883383333SS®g83338S3333S3S333S3 
are  poverty  and  the  weeping  of  little 
children. 

"Oh,  fling  it  from  me  with  your  love! 
Let  me  bury  my  face  in  your  breast  and  for 
get.  Keep  it  away  from  me!  Keep  it  away 
from  me!  Why  can  I  not  reason!  Why 
can  I  not  know  that  the  world  would  not 
permit  one  gifted  as  I  am  to  die  in  want  — 
one  who  bears  within  his  blood  the  genius 
of  his  race! 

:'Yet  I  do  die  there.  I  know  it.  I  see  it. 
Unaccompanied  by  a  single  one  who  mourns, 
my  shabby  coffin  is  borne  along  in  the  rain  — 
to  the  potter's  field  where  the  beggars  lie, 
and  the  red  earth  covers  my  mouth." 

The  Lady  Melodia  bent  her  head  and 
wept.  She  knew  that  the  dream  was  true, 
and  that  the  king  of  the  world  had  died. 


[285] 


THE  KING 

|"N  a  low  doorway,  beneath  a  sign  which 
•*•  advertised  his  saloon  in  three  languages, 
Hebrew,  German,  and  wretched  phonetic 
Mauschel,  stood  the  Polish  keeper,  bawling 
out  for  the  benefit  of  his  countrymen  the 
arrival  of  fresh  vodka  from  the  Vistula. 

Since  the  "hep  hep"  riots  and  the  Juden- 
krawall,  the  Hamburg  Ghetto  gates  had 
been  closed  and  the  quarter  shut  off  from 
supplies.  This  morning  they  were  open 
again,  and  noise  and  excitement  followed. 

The  news  kindled  the  inhabitants'  volu 
bility.  Men  and  women  rushed  into  the 
street  to  discuss  it.  Their  minds  were 
divided  between  love  of  money  and  need  of 
supplies  and  the  world-old  fear  of  bodily  in 
jury.  They  recalled  the  horrors  of  the  weeks 
preceding  the  ban,  and  shivered  to  think 

that  there  was   no  way  of   escape.     They 
[286] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  KING 
eseeeeeeeeeeee&sessseseeeseeeeeeeessees 

must  expose  themselves  to  fresh  injuries  or 
starve. 

In  one  of  the  most  wretched  rooms  of  the 
quarter  this  subject  had  been  under  discus 
sion  since  sunrise.  Here  lived  Gaon  Zunz, 
his  aged  wife,  Deborah,  and  his  fifteen-year 
old  granddaughter,  Rahel. 

Since  the  exile,  Gaon  had  increased  his 
hours  of  prayer  and  fasting,  and  he  felt 
convinced  that  restoration  to  liberty  had 
been  brought  about  by  his  prayerful  inter 
cession.  Therefore  he  decided  that  in  the 
future  Rahel  must  go  to  the  city  and  beg, 
that  he  might  devote  himself  to  prayer  and 
study. 

Gaon  Zunz  was  born  in  southern  Russia, 
where  he  became  a  follower  of  the  Chassi- 
dim.  In  his  early  manhood  he  journeyed 
westward  to  preach  to  the  less  devout 
Jews  of  central  Europe  that  fond  fanati 
cism  of  the  East.  In  Hamburg  he  married 
and  settled,  with  the  hope  of  raising  sons 
to  the  glory  of  Israel.  Disappointed  in 
[2871 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  KING 

888888888888888888888888888888888885888 
this  and  feeling  it  to  be  God's  justice  for 
weakness  lurking  in  the  flesh,  he  gave  him 
self  over  to  prayer  and  fasting,  to  month- 
long  meditation  upon  the  mystic  Cabbala, 
and  to  interpreting  the  Torah  and  the 
Talmud  after  the  manner  of  the  chosen. 
Thus  he  earned  the  prouder  name  of  Father 
of  the  Faith. 

Late  in  life,  a  daughter  was  born  to 
Deborah  and  Gaon,  but  there  was  no  re 
joicing  in  the  house  of  Zunz.  Then,  indeed, 
Gaon  felt  that  the  hand  of  God  was  heavy 
upon  him.  And  when,  at  the  age  of  seven 
teen,  Rahel,  his  daughter,  after  persistently 
refusing  to  enter  into  his  arrangements  for 
marriage,  ran  away  with  a  French  artist 
who  had  become  enamored  of  her  rare 
Oriental  beauty,  and  had  painted  her  as 
"La  Belle  Juive"  he  felt  that  there  was  no 
sinner  so  great  as  he,  for  was  he  not  respon 
sible  for  his  household? 

Misery  and  sorrow  fell  upon  him.  The 
roots  of  his  faith  were  shaken.  Surely  there 
[288] 


•yZSG&3G&^^ 


THE  KING 

383S23S333333333S888S8&SS8SS8S33SSS3SS3 

must  be  sin  in  his  heart,  else  he  could  not 
so  grievously  err. 

The  intervening  years  had  served  some 
what  to  lighten  this  burden  of  grief,  along 
with  the  self -justify  ing  thought  that  when 
the  ban  had  been  pronounced  against  his 
daughter  he  had  been  the  first  to  join  in 
the  curse.  Likewise  he  remembered,  and 
with  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  that  the  next  day 
he  had  celebrated,  in  tolerable  serenity  of 
soul,  the  ceremony  in  honor  of  the  dead. 

Two  years  later  the  artist  husband  died, 
and  one  winter  morning,  Rahel,  with  a  ten- 
days'-old  child,  came  back  to  the  old  East 
Ghetto  gate  to  beg  admittance.  Kind- 
hearted  Joel,  the  keeper,  took  her  peti 
tion  to  the  chief  rabbi  and  interceded  for 
her. 

All  day  she  waited  in  the  cold  by  the  gate, 
while  the  rabbis,  after  having  summoned 
her  father,  deliberated.  Gaon  said  nothing 
in  her  favor.  He  had  buried  her,  and  she 
no  longer  existed.  He  would  abide  by  the 
[289] 


S33333338S333333SSg33853S33333333S33SSS 

THE  KING 

eseseesee&eeseese&seeessse&esesesssesss 

will  of  the  majority.    Toward  sunset  it  was 
agreed  that  she  should  be  taken  back. 

The  chill  of  the  day  of  waiting  in  the 
snow  by  the  windy  gate  was  more  than  her 
weakened  condition  could  bear,  and  she 
died  shortly,  leaving  baby  Rahel  to  the 
stern  up-bringing  of  her  aged  grandparents. 

At  the  thought  that  his  daughter  had 
died  in  the  faith  of  her  fathers,  a  great 
peace  settled  down  upon  Gaon,  and  with  it 
the  blessed  realization  that  she  could  sin 
no  more.  "The  Lord  killeth  and  maketh 
alive:  He  bringeth  down  to  the  grave  and 
bringeth  up,"  he  repeated  with  fervor.  He 
had  at  last  received  substantial  proof  of 
the  answering  of  prayer.  He  had  received 
his  reward  as  a  faithful  "Son  of  the  Com 
mandment,"  who  places  reverence  for  the 
Law  before  love  of  family. 

In  return  for  this  favor  of  the  Most  High, 
he   determined    so   to    bring    up    the    little 
Rahel  that  there  might  be  no  repetition  of 
her  mother's  waywardness. 
[2901 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

THE  KING 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

A  sad  childhood  was  hers.  The  playtimes 
with  little  neighbors  were  embittered  by 
scornful  treatment  and  the  nicknames  "  Gen 
tile"  and  "Christian  dog."  They  had  been 
told  that  she  was  not  of  the  ancient  blood. 
She  learned  to  feel  that  she  was  an  outcast. 
When  she  told  these  things  to  her  grand 
father,  he  explained,  as  best  he  could,  that 
her  father  had  belonged  to  the  wicked 
world  outside  the  gate,  and  that  the  sins  of 
the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  children. 

She  meditated  long  and  deeply  upon 
this,  but  she  could  not  understand.  As  a, 
result  there  remained  with  her  an  unspeak 
able  fear  of  that  stern  Hebrew  God  to 
whom  her  grandfather  prayed,  and  whose 
dwelling  was  the  round-topped  prayer  house. 
After  feast  days  she  lay  awake  far  into  the 
night,  tormented  by  visions  of  ghostly, 
white-clad  figures  with  up-stretched  arms 
weaving  to  and  fro  for  hours  in  the  ecstasy 
of  prayer,  or  intoning  the  ancient  desert 

songs   of  Judea.     She  had   watched   them 
[291J 


1  / 

y 


888S88888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  KING 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

ever  since  she  could  remember  from  her  seat 
beside  her  grandmother  in  the  long  gallery 
behind  the  grating. 

Despite  the  regular  attendance  at  the 
synagogue,  Gaon  was  unable  to  impress 
upon  the  child  the  sacredness  of  the  ancient 
ceremonial.  Fruitless  were  his  exhortations. 
She  was  neither  willful  nor  perverse.  They 
made  no  impression  upon  her.  They  failed 
to  penetrate  the  depths  of  her  being.  She 
could  not  be  brought  to  realize  the  wicked 
ness  of  eating  butter  after  meat,  nor  of 
eating  it  from  the  same  plate;  nor  of  touch 
ing  the  implements  for  making  fire  between 
Friday  night  and  Saturday  night.  Indeed, 
her  very  first  whipping  was  for  drinking  the 
cup  of  wine  poured  for  Elijah. 

Gaon  looked  upon  these  pranks  as  the 
outcome  of  childish  dullness.  In  addition, 
he  was  preparing  himself  by  prayer  for  the 
favor  of  the  ecstatic  vision.  So  bent  was 
he  upon  self-examination  that  he  did  not 
perceive  that  in  the  child-soul  was  being 
[292] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  KING 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

fought  the  ancient  battle  of  the  Latin  and 
the  Hebrew,  the  worshippers  of  the  flesh 
and  the  worshippers  of  the  spirit,  the 
realists  and  the  dreamers,  which,  in  ages 
past,  had  made  the  self-denying  followers 
of  the  Hebrew  Moses  repellant  and  un 
lovely  to  Judea's  pleasure-loving,  pagan 
governors. 

By  the  time  little  Rahel  reached  her 
eighth  year,  she  had  learned  not  to  play 
with  other  children.  Cruelty  had  made  her 
timid.  She  preferred  to  stay  within  rather 
than  subject  herself  to  taunts.  In  the 
dingy  little  front  room,  hung  about  with 
old  clothes,  and  tawdry,  half-worn  orna 
ments,  she  would  sit  for  hours  and  watch 
the  children  through  the  top  half  of  the 
dirty  window,  which  reached  the  street 
level.  At  first  this  isolation  was  grief  un 
speakable,  and  rebellion  filled  her  soul. 
She  watched  them  through  blinding  tears, 
while  longing  for  love  and  companionship 
gripped  her  heart. 

[2931 


/ 


83383S333333S38333333SS3SSS8SSS383333S3 

THE  KING 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

Time  eased  this  feeling  and  taught  her  to 
amuse  herself.  She  found  she  could  make 
any  number  of  playmates  with  a  pencil. 
Soon  the  days  were  not  long  enough  to  fix 
upon  paper  the  swarming  children  of  her 
fancy.  She  reproduced  everything  she  saw; 
the  passers  in  the  street,  the  women  who 
bought  old  clothes  of  her  grandmother,  and 
the  furniture  in  the  room. 

When  her  eyes  and  back  ached  from  long 
bending,  she  would  look  up  through  the 
broken  pane  of  the  dirty  window  at  a  scrap 
of  blue  sky  ever  and  ever  so  far  away,  and 
the  color  gave  her  pleasure.  It  reminded 
her  of  one  of  her  grandfather's  stories  of  the 
Holy  Land  of  the  Jews,  where  there  was  a 
sea  called  Galilee,  which  was  as  blue  as 
the  turquoise  in  the  Polish  saloon-keeper's 
wife's  Shabbes  brooch. 

One  day,  after  many  weeks  of  practice, 
when  her  childish  fingers  had  acquired  con 
siderable  skill,  she  found  a  fresh  sheet  of 
brown  paper  which  she  pinned  smoothly 
[294] 


S383SS3SS88838SS338SSSS3SSgS32838383S88 

THE  KING 

eseseeeeeeseeeeeeeeeesesees&ssesesesess 

upon  a  board,  with  the  intention  of  making 
a  picture  of  Grossmutter  Jackobsky,  the 
pickle  dealer  across  the  way. 

All  day  the  little,  fat  old  woman  stood 
and  waved  and  beckoned  with  her  dirty, 
brass-ringed  fingers  and  called:  "Pick-leal! 
Pick-les  I !  "  About  her  neck  was  a  rope, 
from  which  was  suspended  a  flat  board, 
piled  breast-high  with  green,  shining  pickles. 

She  wore  a  curly,  faded  wig  which  was 
always  askew,  and  many -branched  coral  ear 
rings  which  reached  her  shoulders,  the  rings 
being  tied  about  her  ears  with  coarse  yarn, 
which  made  two  wriggling  black  bows  on 
either  side. 

She  was  touching  the  figure  up  for  the 
last  time  one  night  several  days  later,  when 
Gaon  came  in  unexpectedly  and  caught  her 
at  the  work. 

"What's  this?"  he  thundered,  snatching 

the  picture  from  her  hands.     "  God  of  Israel ! 

that  one  of  my  own  blood  should  keep  me 

from  the  vision !      Have  I  not  told  you  that 

[295] 


z&s&s&ec&z^^ 


THE  KING 


•ySGGG&XZX^^ 


we  may  not  make  pictures,  that  it  is  expressly 
forbidden  by  the  Torah?  Have  I  not  told 
you  that  it  is  a  violation  of  the  Law?  "  Thou 
shall  not  make  unto  thee  a  graven  image,  nor 
any  likeness  of  anythinqlthat  is  in  heaven  above, 

I/  V  *J  t/I 

or  that  is  in  the  earttilbeneath,  or  that  is  in 
the  water  under  the  earth :  for  I,  the  Lord 
thy  God,  am  a  jealous  God  .  .  . 

The  last  words  ended  in  a  shriek  of  rage. 
His  face  was  streaked  with  lines  of  ashen 
white.  Purple  veins  knotted  up  ominously 
upon  his  forehead.  Madness  trembled  in 
his  voice.  She  could  see  its  unsteady  light 
in  his  eyes. 

Scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  in  his  fear 
and  horror  of  the  crime  that  had  been  com 
mitted  beneath  his  roof,  he  fell  upon  the 
frightened  child.  When  his  anger  had  ex 
pended  itself,  Rahel's  right  hip  was  dis 
located  and  her  back  injured.  After  many 
weeks,  when  she  was  able  to  be  up  and 
about  again,  she  was  a  hopeless  cripple, 

and  a  distortion  of  the  body  had  set  in. 
[296] 


THE  KING 

At  sight  of  the  result  of  his  anger,  Gaon 
quoted  Samuel:  "Wickedness  proceedeth 
from  the  wicked,"  and  sought  to  prepare 
himself  anew  for  the  vision. 

During  the  years  that  followed,  no  answer 
had  been  granted  him  until  the  opening  of 
the  gate  on  the  day  for  which  he  had  peti 
tioned.  He  ascribed  the  barrenness  of  the 
intervening  years  to  Rahel's  transgression 
of  the  Torah  law.  Now  he  felt  that  God 
had  forgiven  him  and  restored  him  to  favor. 
If  he  could  win  thus  much  by  personal 
intercession,  was  it  not  reasonable  to  be 
lieve  that  he  could  win  more  and  perhaps 
avert  the  future  persecution  of  his  people? 

For  this  reason  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  Rahel  must  go  into  the  city  and  look 
after  the  living.  She  was  old  enough.  She 
was  fifteen,  although  she  was  hardly  larger 
than  a  child  of  twelve.  During  the  seven 
years  since  the  injury  she  had  steadily 
grown  out  of  shape,  until  she  was  a  one 
sided  hunchback  with  a  huge,  misshapen 
[297] 


888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  KING 

888888888888888888888888888888888888838 

hip.  Her  face,  too,  had  taken  on  the  pinched, 
pitiful  look  of  cripples. 

Gaon's  decision  that  she  must  go  to  the 
city  was  like  sentence  of  death.  She  had 
never  been  outside  the  gate.  She  was 
afraid  of  the  great  world  which  stoned 
grown  people  as  the  children  used  to  stone 
her.  And  to  go  all  alone !  Her  soul  sickened.  *" 

:<Yes,  you  must  go  on  the  morrow,  Rahel, 
if  the  others  are  not  molested  to-day.  I  am 
too  old.  Besides,  I  have  a  greater  duty  here. 
There  will  be  no  danger  for  you,  because 
you  do  not  look  like  our  people.  You  are 
a  cripple,  and  they  will  give  to  you  richly." 

It  was  a  pitiable  figure,  clad  in  the  sober, 
earth-colored  livery  of  the  poor,  that  limped 
down  the  long  street  from  the  Ghetto  gate 
the  next  morning.  She  looked  like  a  little, 
shivering  partridge  with  a  broken  wing. 
Slung  over  her  back  and  trailing  along  be 
hind  in  the  dirt,  was  a  coarse  bag  for  old 
clothes.  Hidden  carefully  in  the  bottom 
of  that  bag,  however,  were  brown  paper 
[298] 


3338838SSS3SS3Sg3gS8g3SS8S338S3S33SS3S3 

THE  KING 

88S8SS3S83S838«JS3333SS233333SS338383338 

and  two  pencils,  in  case  she  had  a  minute 
in  which  to  rest. 

The  spring  air  was  warm  and  sweet. 
Iridescent  flecks  of  morning  mist  hovered 
over  distances  and  disengaged  themselves 
from  grass  and  trees.  What  a  wonderful 
world  outside  the  gate!  The  houses  were 
clean  and  white.  The  windows  sparkled. 
In  front  of  each  house  was  a  little  green 
grass  plot  with  flowers  in  it.  She  had  never 
seen  flowers  growing  before.  There  was  no 
room  in  the  Ghetto,  which  was  a  fixed  space 
for  an  increasing  number.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  flowers  in  the  Synagogue  for  the  Feast 
of  Weeks,  and  the  succah  were  frequently 
roofed  with  green  leaves  and  trailing  vines 
for  Tabernacles.  But  here  were  flowers  of 
all  colors  —  growing  right  out  of  the  ground. 

She  forgot  her  fears.  Her  cramped  lungs 
expanded  in  the  purer  air.  Her  cramped 
soul  expanded,  too,  with  joy  at  realization 
of  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

There  is  a  Fatherland  of  the  spirit  which 
[299] 


THE  KING 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

has  nothing  to  do  with  country,  race,  or 
language,  where  the  heart  is  happy,  and 
over  which  beams  warmly  the  smiling  sun 
of  genius.  She  had  found  it  in  the  heart 
of  an  alien  city;  but  the  artist's  gift  was 
hers,  and  that  makes  beggars  kings. 

In  each  yard  grew  some  flower  that  she 
had  not  seen  in  the  one  before,  arid  she 
wandered  on  and  on,  forgetful  of  time, 
weariness,  the  errand  upon  which  she  had 
come.  Color  affected  her  sensitive  nerves 
pleasurably,  exquisitely,  as  does  melody 
the  sensitive  ears  of  a  musician. 

There  were  trees,  too.  In  the  Ghetto  only 
thin,  starved  poplars  grew.  Here  were  all 
kinds,  and  the  tender  young  leaves  upon 
them  shone  like  an  aura  of  green,  sweet 
light. 

She  walked  on  and  on,  until  she  dropped 
from  weariness,  and  the  chilling  thought 
came  that  Gaon  would  be  very  angry  if 
she  went  back  empty-handed. 

While  she  rested,  she  ate  the  bread  she 
[300] 


•xx&a&zzz^^ 


THE  KING 


had  brought,  and  began  to  look  at  the 
people.  They  were  not  like  Ghetto  people. 
For  the  most  part  they  were  well  dressed. 
Some  of  the  women  had  bright  yellow  hair, 
and,  best  of  all,  they  looked  down  upon  her 
kindly.  As  she  sat  staring  up  at  them,  with 
great,  dark  eyes  in  whose  depths  lay  grief 
and  an  infinite  longing,  first  one,  then  an 
other,  dropped  a  coin  in  her  lap. 

Down  at  the  end  of  a  distant  street,  ever 
and  ever  so  far  away,  something  sparkled, 
something  blue  as  the  sky,  but  of  a  chang 
ing  blue,  vibrantly  bright,  like  light.  It  was 
the  color  of  the  turquoise  in  the  rich  Polish 
woman's  Shabbes  brooch.  It  must  be  the 
Sea  of  Galilee!  Why  had  not  her  grand 
father  told  her!  It  was  probably  a  very 
large  sea,  she  reflected,  and  the  other  side 
reached  Palestine. 

The   desire   came   to   reproduce   the    sea 

with    the    dancing    splendor    upon    it,    and 

indeed    everything    she    saw;     the    flowers, 

the  trees  with  their  halos  of  young  light. 

[3011 


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS3S 

THE  KING 
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

There  followed  speedily  the  discouraging 
thought  that  a  pencil  could  not  do  it.  For 
Ghetto  scenes,  where  everything  was  gray 
or  black  or  brown,  a  pencil  was  well  enough, 
but  for  this  something  different  was  needed. 

She  jumped  up,  forgetful  of  weariness  and 
her  aching  back,  determined  to  beg  enough 
clothes  to  fill  the  bag,  so  that  she  could 
keep  the  coins  for  herself.  When  she  reached 
the  Ghetto,  she  would  talk  it  over  with  Joel. 
He  would  know  if  there  were  pencils  of  a 
different  kind,  which  made  color.  If  there 
were,  she  would  give  him  the  money  and 
let  him  buy  them. 

The  next  morning  she  took  advantage  of 
Gaon's  good  humor  and  left  the  Ghetto  late, 
that  she  might  see  Joel  alone  and  find  out 
if  he  had  made  the  purchases.  Sure  enough, 
he  was  waiting  for  her,  his  wizened  face 
puckered  into  a  smile.  Carefully  beckon 
ing  her  to  one  side,  he  handed  her  a  tin 
box.  Lifting  the  lid,  he  showed  her  rows 
and  rows  of  bright  paint  tubes,  brushes, 
[302] 


z/yyy&3&&&&&^^ 


THE  KING 


•x&ss&s&z^^ 


pieces  of  canvas,  and  some  sheets  of  draw 
ing  paper. 

"Didn't  it  cost  an  awful  lot,  Joel,  more 
than  I  gave  you?" 

"Just  three  times  as  much;  but  you'll 
earn  the  money  in  a  week  to  pay  it  back  - 
see  if  you  don't!  One  of  the  artist  fellows 
in  the  shop  showed  me  how  to  use  them. 
You  stick  your  thumb  through  this  thing  — 
sol  Then  squeeze  out  the  paint  and  mix  it 
the  color  of  what  you  want  to  make.  That 
same  artist  fellow  told  me  there  was  going 
to  be  a  picture  show  in  his  shop  window 
to-day.  You  be  sure  to  see  it.  The  pic 
tures  will  be  made  out  of  just  such  stuff  as 
you  have  here.  Now  don't  you  miss  seeing 
that  picture  show  —  on  no  account  —  Ra- 
hel!"  he  called  out,  as  she  hobbled  away. 

Her  heart  grew  light  as  the  distance 
increased  between  herself  and  the  Ghetto. 
The  bright  world  filled  her  with  a  pleasant 
sense  of  possession.  Could  she  not  make  all 

the  lovely  things  she  saw  her  own?    Could 
[303] 


THE  KING 

833388833333838883883333333383838383333 

she  not  steal  them  and  put  them  on  the 
white  paper  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  bag? 

"I'll  fill  the  bag  first  and  get  what  money 
I  can,  and  then  I'll  go  to  the  picture  show." 

Few  could  withstand  the  appealing,  mis 
shapen  figure,  with  the  ragged  dress  and 
piteous  face.  As  noon  approached,  there 
was  enough  in  the  bag  to  satisfy  Gaon,  and 
she  turned  her  steps  toward  the  shop,  in 
the  direction  Joel  had  given. 

It  was  not  hard  to  find.  Some  distance 
away  she  caught  the  gold  gleam  of  a  frame, 
and  saw  a  crowd  upon  the  walk.  When  she 
reached  the  edge  of  the  crowd,  she  was 
obliged  to  put  her  burden  down  and  pause 
for  breath.  Noon  was  at  hand  and  the 
people  were  beginning  to  leave.  Soon  she 
dared  to  creep  forward  and  look  up. 

Oh,  never-to-be-forgotten  moment!  Won 
drous  vision!  The  gold  frame  filled  the 
window  from  side  to  side.  Within  it,  float 
ing  downward  across  a  well-nigh  endless 
vista  of  clouds  and  radiant  mists,  tenderly 
[304] 


S3S33833S33833S3SSS3S3333333S8S8S3SSS38 

THE  KING 
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS 

up -curling  and  fleecily  white,  yet  which 
seemed  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  the  brilliancy  of  sunlight,  or  into  some 
more  delicate,  multi-colored  efflorescence  of 
light,  was  a  figure  —  a  figure  of  a  man  of 
divinest  beauty.  His  blue  robe  edged  with 
gold  floated  gently  on  the  roseate  air. 
About  his  head  was  a  circle  of  light,  as  if 
there  an  immortal  sun  was  about  to  rise, 
and  his  hands  were  outstretched  in  the 
blessing  of  prayer. 

'It  is  strange,"  thought  Rahel,  "that  his 
hands  are  held  right  out  toward  me."    She 
looked  about  for  verification.     "Yes,  they 
are  held  right  out  toward  me  and  not  toward 
any  of  the  others.     And  his  eyes,  too,  are 
looking  down  into  mine." 
/    As  she  stood  and  looked  up  at  the  sweet,   : 
\  sad  eyes,   and  they   looked  back   tenderly 
into  hers,   a  feeling  of  grief  cramped  her 
heart,  —  grief  for  the  mother-love  she  had 
never  known,  for  the  careless  merriment  of 
childhood  lost  and  gone,  for  the  stonings, 
[305] 


883383883333383338833383383383383388333 

THE  KING 

S33SSSS3SS3333S8SS3S3S38333SS3Sg3®g3333 

the  taunts,  the  jeers,  the  insults;  for  the 
cruel  beatings,  the  enforced  fasts,  the  insuf 
ficient  food;  the  cold,  damp  room  where 
she  slept  on  a  pile  of  rags  and  wept  herself 
to  sleep,  and  where,  in  her  timid  childhood, 
she  had  suffered  agonies  of  fear  of  the  dark 
and  the  storms  and  the  wind.  She  felt  that 
the  pictured  One  above  was  sorry ;  that  He 
pitied  her  and  suffered  too;  that  He  knew  it 
all,  understood  it  all;  and  tears  came  to 
her  eyes  and  fell  down,  one  by  one,  like 
crystals,  on  the  walk.  She  felt  as  the  child 
feels  who  runs  to  its  mother's  skirts,  sure 
of  protection  and  comfort. 

The  beam  of  love  melted  the  hardened 
anguish  of  her  heart  and  gave  it  voice,  as 
sun  melts  silent  snow-fields  and  makes  way 
for  the  "  green  murmur  "  of  summer.  She 
stood  and  wept,  and  her  heart  \\  as  lightened. 
Her  grief  melted  away  and  vanished  in  the 
mist  of  tears.  Passers-by  jostled  her,  but 
she  did  not  feel  them.  The  noon  hour 
passed  nor  did  hunger  remind  her  of  it,  nor 
[  306  ] 


c&zx&&&&&^^ 


THE  KING 
eesessesssssessseeeeessseeeessesssessss 

weariness  warn  that  she  had  stood  for  a 
long  time.  The  ineffable  face  which  has 
smiled  its  peace  adown  the  bitterness  of  the 
ages  smiled  into  hers,  and  the  miracle  of 
love  was  wrought  anew. 

She  could  not  drag  herself  away  from  the 
picture;  she  could  not  look  enough.  She 
drank  in  its  meaning,  its  caressing  sympathy, 
its  all-pervading  kindliness,  greedily.  It  was 
for  this  that  she  had  thirsted,  as  a  traveler 
in  a  stony  desert  thirsts  for  water;  for  what 
is  love  but  the  thirst  of  the  soul? 

"I  can  make  me  a  picture  just  like  that!  " 
she  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

Inspired  by  this  resolve,  she  went  around 
to  a  side  street,  took  out  the  drawing-paper 
and  pencils  and,  seating  herself  upon  the 
old  bag,  went  to  work. 

"I  will  make  it  just  like  that,  only  be 
neath  I  will  paint  the  Sea  of  Galilee." 

When  the  picture  was  sketched  in,  she 
left  the  clothes-bag  with  a  Jewish  fruit- 
seller,  and  went  back  to  compare  her  work 
[307J 


"XEK&X&yX&X^^ 


THE  KING 
essssseeeesse&eeeeeeesesgsesseeeess&ees 

with  the  original;  changing  and  correcting 
until  the  pencil  sketch  was  a  perfect  likeness 
in  miniature. 

On  the  way  home,  she  meditated  upon 
ways  and  means  of  executing  the  plan. 
How  could  she  get  a  piece  of  canvas  large 
enough,  and  when  she  got  it,  where  could 
she  put  it?  Gaon  must  not  know,  nor  any 
one  in  the  quarter. 

As  she  neared  the  Ghetto  and  saw  in  the 
distance  the  complicated  twisted  gables  of 
the  old  house,  like  a  flash  the  problem  solved 
itself.  The  two  rooms  occupied  by  Gaon 
and  Deborah  were  on  the  first  floor.  Out 
of  the  rear  of  these  rooms  a  rickety  stairway, 
clinging  to  one  wall,  led  to  an  upper,  back 
room,  which  Rahel  occupied.  This  room, 
whose  two  outer  walls  were  of  stone,  belonged 
to  an  older  house,  which  a  wealthy  rabbi 
had  built  for  his  own  use  several  decades 
before.  The  front  had  fallen  down  and  been 
replaced  by  the  present  wretched  wooden 

structure. 

[308] 


•z&z&z/z&z&c&z&z^^ 


THE  KING 

g33S38SS3S33888S3SS®33S83S38S3S3S8S3S33 

The  old  rabbi's  room  had  been  painted 
pale  yellow,  with  the  exception  of  one  long, 
white  panel  reaching  nearly  to  the  ceiling, 
which  was  left  unpainted  —  as  was  the 
custom  with  the  pious  —  for  a  testimonial 
of  the  good  rabbi's  grief  at  the  destruction 
of  the  Temple  and  Jerusalem. 

"I  will  paint  it  in  that  panel.  Grand 
mother  is  too  feeble  and  too  nearly  blind  to 
risk  the  stairs,  and  Gaon  is  too  busy.  He 
has  not  entered  the  room  for  years.  It 
will  be  safe  enough  there.  To-morrow  is 
Shabbes,  and  the  next  day  the  Christian 
Sunday;  I  shall  have  two  days  in  which 
to  begin  it." 

When  Monday  came  and  she  went  into 
the  city  again,  it  was  with  the  happy  con 
sciousness  that  the  great  picture  was  begun. 
She  went  straight  to  the  shop  window  in 
order  to  contemplate  the  original  and  take 
from  it  corrective  ideas  for  her  copy. 

The  picture  was  gone,  but  in  its  place 
there  was  another  of  the  same  man,  almost, 
[309] 


THE  KING 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

if  not  quite,  as  lovely.  This  time  he  was 
sitting  in  a  field  of  lilies  beside  a  sunny  sea. 
She  felt  dimly,  rather  than  thought,  that  his 
face  was  as  pure  and  as  beautiful  as  the 
flowers  and  did  not  cause  the  slightest  dis 
cord  in  the  scene's  serenity.  In  front  of 
him  children  played.  He  was  holding  his 
arms  out  toward  them  invitingly,  as  if  to 
embrace  them  all,  and  the  world  beside,  as 
if  he  would  say,  "So  wide  is  my  love." 
The  same  gentle,  tender  smile  curved  the 
lips,  and  the  eyes  were  twin  stars  of  love. 

Beneath  were  some  printed  words  she 
could  not  read.  As  she  stood  lost  in  con 
templation,  a  woman  came  and  stood  beside 
her  in  whose  face  she  recognized  the  old 
indelible  marks  of  the  Jewish  race. 

The  woman  was  a  baptized  Jewess,  whose 
early  days  had  been  passed  in  the  Ghetto, 
and  who  retained  a  memory  of  its  Mauschel 
dialect. 

"Who  is  it?"    ventured  Rahel   timidly, 
pointing  to  the  picture. 
[310J 


3&yzc&c&yz&&^^ 


THE  KING 

8Sg3Sg3S333S83Sg38883833383333338833333 

Finding  the  name  unintelligible  to  the 
strange  child,  the  woman  was  searching  in 
her  mind  for  a  circumlocution  when  — 

"Is  it  a  great  king?"  whispered  Rahel, 
in  an  awed  voice. 

:'Yes,  the  greatest  King  in  the  world." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"Everywhere." 

"Then  he  is  here  in  Hamburg?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"Now?" 

"Yes,  right  here." 

"What  is  he  doing  there  in  the  picture?" 

"Blessing  little  children.  He  loves  them. 
If  they  are  blind,  He  touches  their  eyes  and 
they  see.  If  they  are  ill,  He  makes  them 
well." 

"Does  he  love  me?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

Again  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  fell  upon 
the  pavement. 

"Do  you  think  he  would  make  me  well  — 
and  —  straight?" 

[311] 


THE  KING 


•3&&3&&3Q&^^ 


"If  you  love  Him,  I  know  He  will." 

When  Rahel  brushed  the  tears  away  from 
her  eyes,  so  that  she  could  look  up,  the  kind 
woman  was  gone.  She  could  not  see  her  in 
any  direction  and  she  had  forgotten  to  ask 
where  he  lived. 

That  day  she  thought  of  nothing  but  the 
King.  Gaon  and  his  displeasure  if  she  re 
turned  with  an  empty  bag  vanished  like 
mist  before  the  sun.  The  King  !  The  King  ! 
Her  soul  was  caught  up  and  whirled  along  in 
an  ecstasy  of  emotion  that  banished  thought 
and  fear. 

The  divine  face  which  in  ages  past  smiled 
down  upon  its  martyrs'  insensibility  to  pain 
and  anguish,  upon  its  exiles  for  faith's  sake, 
forgetfulness  of  home  and  kindred,  and  upon 
the  mortally  injured,  the  blessed  promise  of 
a  paradise  beyond,  wrought  its  old  magic 
upon  her.  Nor  weariness,  nor  hunger,  nor 
fear  could  reach  her  through  Love's  fever, 
sent  of  God. 

"Such  a  very  great  king,"  she  reflected, 
[3121 


g33gg333338S3SS3333S33S3333SSgSgS3S3S33 

THE  KING 


"must  live  in  one  of  those  large  houses  at 
the  edge  of  the  city." 

Patiently  she  limped  along  the  dusty 
roads,  the  old  bag  trailing  behind,  pausing 
at  each  house  that  presented  a  goodly  ap 
pearance  to  inquire,  in  a  language  that  no 
one  could  understand,  if  the  King  lived  there. 
When  they  shook  their  heads,  she  was  loth 
to  go  away,  and  tried  again  and  again  to 
explain.  To  make  up  for  inability  to  answer 
her  questions,  and  for  the  grief  and  disap 
pointment  that  lay  in  her  eyes,  they  gave 
her  money.  She  took  it  mechanically,  not 
knowing  what  she  did. 

For  a  week  she  was  not  seen  in  the  Ghetto. 
The  day's  long  journeys  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  city  made  it  impossible  to  reach  the 
gate  at  four,  which  was  closing  time.  She 
slept  in  barns  and  by  haystacks,  and  kind- 
hearted  servants  fed  her 

No  large  house  in  the  environs  was  left  un- 
visited.  As  daily  the  quest  became  more 
futile,  she  stopped  passers  on  the  streets, 
[3131 


DCOOCCOCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCOCOCCCC 


THE  KING 

888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

and  with  trembling  gestures  and  tearful 
words  tried  to  explain  what  she  wanted  to 
know,  pointing  the  while  to  her  poor  bent 
back  and  misshapen  hip.  She  peered  into 
the  carriages  of  the  rich  and  scanned  each 
passing  face. 

Her  feet  were  bruised  and  bleeding;  her 
throat  parched  with  the  dust  of  the  road; 
her  eyes  dim  and  blurred  with  the  strain  of 
looking.  But  of  this  she  knew  nothing,  nor 
that  the  absorbing  passion  was  wasting  her 
body  and  burning  up  the  frail  tenement  of 
the  spirit. 

People  became  accustomed  to  seeing  the 
strange  child  with  the  wild,  white  face,  and 
touched  their  foreheads  significantly  when 
they  met  her. 

A  week  later,  when  she  turned  her  steps 
toward  the  Ghetto,  the  only  thought  that 
came  to  console  her  for  the  bitterness  of  dis 
appointment  was  that  she  must  surely  find 
iiim  sometime,  because  he  lived  in  Ham 
burg.  And  then,  too,  he  might  be  away 
[314] 


•yyztxttxac^^ 


THE  KING 

888888gS88888g88888888888888®8888S8g888 
on  a  visit  and  that  kind  woman  not  know 
about  it. 

The  silver  coins  served  in  some  slight  de 
gree  to  mollify  Gaon's  wrath,  until  she  per 
sistently  refused  to  explain  the  cause  of  her 
absence.  Then  he  would  have  beaten  her  as 
of  old,  had  it  not  been  for  the  nearness  of 
the  Passover,  and  the  fact  that  he  wished  to 
preserve  his  serenity  of  soul,  with  the  hope 
that  at  that  season  the  vision  might  be 
vouchsafed  him.  He  made  peace  with  his 
conscience  by  commanding  her  to  stay  at 
home  and  fast  and  pray,  preceding  the  feast. 

During  these  days  of  punishment,  when 
she  was  confined  within  her  room,  she  utilized 
every  moment  of  the  light,  from  the  first 
faint  flush  of  dawn  to  the  last  pallid  beam  of 
evening,  in  working  upon  the  picture.  Like 
magic  it  grew  beneath  her  fingers.  Each 
stroke  of  the  brush  brought  nearer  to  her 
the  living  figure.  She  thrilled  with  the  artist's 
incommunicable  joy  of  creation.  All  her 
life,  all  her  love,  all  her  energy,  all  her 
[3151 


THE  KING 


longing,  she  put  into  the  blessed  face.  She 
poured  her  soul  into  it.  She  robbed  her 
frail  body  of  life  that  it  might  beam  the 
richer. 

As  the  painted  face  took  on  life  and  beauty 
and  color,  and  the  pulsating  glow  of  reality, 
the  frail,  gnome-like  figure  that  worked  upon 
it,  standing  upon  an  old  chair  placed  on  top 
of  a  table,  became  frailer  and  more  spectral 
looking,  and  painted  with  a  fiercer  and  a 
more  demoniac  energy.  The  brush  flew 
with  the  fury  of  inspiration.  Each  drop  of 
paint  wrought  a  miracle  and  called  matter 
into  life.  The  artist's  body  was  wasted 
away  until  it  looked  as  if  a  spirit  caught  up 
in  a  cobweb  of  rags  was  hovering  against 
the  old  rabbi's  wall,  and  painting  with  the 
marvelous  precision  of  a  supernatural  power. 
At  the  end  of  the  two  weeks  the  picture  was 
completed  and  shone  like  a  gem  illuminating 
the  dingy  room. 

When  Gaon's  good  humor  returned  suf 
ficiently  to  send  Rahel  out  of  the  Ghetto 
[316] 


sssssssssssssssssssssssssasssssssssssss 

THE  KING 
eeessesssseseeessseeeessess&eessseessss 

again,  Passion-week  had  come  and  its  tragic 
gloom  hung  over  the  German  city.  As  she 
walked  along  slowly  and  feebly,  feeling  the 
effect  of  the  fast,  she  caught  sight,  down  the 
old  familiar  street,  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 
and  her  heart  leaped  high  with  joy  at  the 
thought  that  beneath  the  feet  of  the  King 
she  had  made  it  just  so  blue  and  sparkling. 

She  was  too  weak  to  beg.  She  was  too 
weary  to  walk.  She  sat  down  and  watched 
the  blue  water  in  that  happy  daze  which 
exhaustion  brings  to  the  mind.  She  felt  as 
if  she  were  encased  in  a  crystal  sphere,  against 
which  beat  vainly  the  tingling  noises  of  lii'e, 
but  whose  bright  surface  reflected,  soap- 
bubble-wise,  color  and  form  with  an  added 
charm.  The  world  floated  off  and  away, 
and  she  watched  it  vaguely,  her  mind  taking 
note  of  it  as  of  something  seen  in  a  dream. 
She  did  not  know  how  long  she  sat  there. 
Hours  were  as  minutes.  The  light  began  to 
slope  to  westward,  warning  her  of  closing 
time.  She  got  up  feebly,  determined  to  go 
[317] 


833333S3S333333S3383S38333S333S38SS3338 

THE  KING 
sessesesessesseseeeeeseesesseeeeeeesess 

as  far  as  the  window  to  see  the  picture.  On 
the  morrow  the  Passover  began,  and  she 
would  not  be  permitted  to  leave  the  Ghetto 
for  eight  days.  Feebly,  dizzily,  she  dragged 
herself  along,  her  mind  a  chaos  of  fragment 
ary  thoughts. 

She  could  see  the  window  some  distance 
away,  but  nothing  gleamed  in  it.  On  ap 
proaching,  what  a  vision  of  grief  met  her 
eyes!  The  shock  brought  order  to  her  mind 
and  summoned  her  strength  by  one  mighty 
effort  to  a  consuming  realization  of  grief. 

There,  in  the  deep  window  recess,  which 
was  draped  in  black,  just  where  the  glowing 
picture  had  hung,  was  a  huge  cross  of  snowy 
marble,  and  upon  it,  dying,  suffering,  with 
pitiful  wounds  upon  the  hands  and  feet  and 
breast,  with  a  crown  of  cruel  thorns  upon 
the  gentle  brow  —  Oh !  agony  beyond  ex 
pression  —  The  King  U 

Now  she  could  never  find  him,  never  see 
him!  Now  he  could  not  lay  his  hands  in 
blessing  upon  her  and  make  her  well !  There 
[318] 


THE  KING 

838883883333838888883888838883883333883 

was  no  one  who  pitied  her,  no  one  who 
loved  her!  There  was  nothing  left  to  live 
for. 

When  the  dimness  which  overmastering 
emotion  causes  passed,  she  looked  about  at 
the  people  to  see  if  their  grief  was  equal  to 
her  own.  They  were  going  about  busily 
and  happily  as  usual.  Bright-haired  girls 
tripped  by  in  groups,  carrying  bouquets  of 
gay  flowers,  and  calm  matrons  led  little 
children.  Yes,  yes,  it  was  all  true  what 
Gaon  had  told  her:  the  world  outside  the  gate 
was  wicked ! 

Why  did  they  not  mourn  for  him?  Why 
did  they  not  cover  their  heads  with  the  white 
grave  cloths  and  strew  upon  them  ashes? 
Why  did  they  not  find  the  ones  who  killed 
him  and  torture  them  —  torture  them  - 
torture  them! 

Her  grief  was  transformed  into  rage. 
Physical  exhaustion  strung  her  nerves  to  the 
pitch  of  frenzy  and  sent  the  wild  blood  beat 
ing  in  her  brain. 

[3191 


838883838333383383832338888838833333333 

THE  KING 

888883838388888333338888883838833888383 
She  threw  away  the  old  bag.  She  pushed 
back  hastily  the  thick  hair  from  her  eyes. 
She  straightened  as  best  she  could  the  miser 
able  bent  figure.  She  turned  and  faced  the 
passers-by  and  the  busy  street.  She  flung 
her  long,  thin  arms  upward,  as  do  Judean 
shepherds  when  they  pray,  and  in  that  stern 
and  ancient  tongue  which  is  rich  in  reproaches 
and  the  eloquence  of  vengeance,  she  cursed 
them.  She  cursed  them  in  her  rage  and 
fury  at  their  heartlessness,  their  wanton 
cruelty,  their  base  ingratitude. 

Shriller  and  shriller  grew  her  voice,  fiercer 
and  more  unrestrained  the  unintelligible 
words,  which  called  down  upon  them  the 
vengeance  of  the  stern  Hebrew  God,  who 
would  destroy  them  with  the  fire  of  his 
wrath.  Her  frail  body,  swaying  to  and  fro 
in  the  agony  of  emotion,  was  all  but  con 
sumed  by  the  whirlwind  of  passion  that 
swept  it.  The  heat  of  anger  burned  and 
withered  it  as  does  flame  the  stubble,  and 
she  fell  forward  exhausted,  upon  the  walk. 
[320] 


THE  KING 

8833833SS8383338S3SS3S383g333S38333S333 
Some  one  picked  her  up  and  placed  her  in 
a  neighboring  doorway.  But  what  terrible 
grief  breathed  from  her  facer!  Her  eyes,  out 
of  which  the  passion  had  died,  were  like  dim, 
tarnished  mirrors,  and  the  pitiful  mouth  was 
pinched  and  pale.  There  was  nothing  left 
to  live  for!  The  sun  had  gone  out  and  the 
moon  was  dead  and  the  stars  had  fallen  out 
of  heaven. 

When  she  reached  home,  she  flung  herself 
upon  the  floor  and  wept.  To  her  grand 
mother's  questions  and  exhortations  she  was 
deaf.  She  did  not  hear  them.  Nothing 
mattered  now. 

Gaon  came,  his  eyes  shining  with  fanati 
cism,  and  told  her  that  it  was  the  eve  of  the 
Fourteenth  of  Nisan,  that  on  the  morrow  the 
Passover  began,  and  that  she  must  help  her 
grandmother  prepare  the  evening  meal.  To 
his  commands  she  turned  unheeding  ears. 
Her  lifted  face  expressed  the  apathy  of  the 
dead.  Her  blurred  eyes  looked  through  him 
and  beyond  at  something  he  could  not  see. 
[321  ] 


8333S3S333883388333S3333333333S33333883 

THE  KING 

When  the  meal  was  ready,  the  cups  of 
salted  water  set  on,  the  bitter  herbs,  and  the 
leg  of  mutton,  Gaon  arose  and  said  reverently: 
"Blessed  art  Thou  —  who  hast  sanctified  us 
by  Thy  commandments,  and  hast  commanded 
us  concerning  the  removal  of  the  leavened 
bread." 

He  took  one  of  the  lighted  candles  and 
proceeded  to  search  carefully  the  house,  ac 
cording  to  the  command,  to  make  sure  that 
nothing  forbidden  be  left  during  the  season 
of  the  feast.  Into  every  nook  and  cranny  of 
the  two  rooms  he  peered,  saying  after  each 
examination  that  if  anything  forbidden  be 
left  unnoticed,  it  was  not  his  fault  and  his 
heart  was  pure. 

When  Rahel  heard  him  groping  on  the 
rickety  stairs  in  the  back  room,  she  leaped 
to  her  feet  and  followed. 

"Grandfather  —  do  not  go  there!  You 
know  there  can  be  nothing  in  my  room.  Do 
not  go  there! " 

"I  must  do  as  the  Law  commands." 
.  [  322  J 


8Sg3338Sg38833SS333SS3S88®S3S8SS33S83S3 

THE  KING 

88gS88S88888888888888S88g888S8888888888 

"No  —  Grandfather!  —  it  is  useless  —  the 
stairs  are  unsafe  —  do  not  go ! " 

Unheeding  her  words,  he  climbed  the 
creaking  stairs,  Rahel  following.  He  flung 
the  door  open.  The  draft  blew  the  candle 
flame  to  gigantic  size,  illuminating  the  pic 
ture  high  upon  the  opposite  wall.  In  the 
momentary  flash  of  light  it  was  a  living  form. 
The  dingy  wall  had  parted  and  let  in  the 
mist-sweet,  white,  cloud-radiance  of  night, 
adown  which  sped  toward  the  trembling, 
aged  man  the  glorious  figure  of  the  young 
Messiah.  For  a  moment  he  was  overcome 
by  fear  and  reverence,  and  awed  into  silence 
by  the  majesty  of  beauty. 

Then  his  nature  reasserted  itself.  He 
remembered  that  Rahel  had  begged  him  netf 
to  come.  The  truth  dawned  upon  him.  His 
face  grew  cruel  and  thin.  Unspeakable 
anger  shone  from  the  narrow  little  eyes  upon 
her  who  had  broken  the  Law  and  a  second 
time  kept  him  from  the  vision.  A  hideous 
Hebrew  type  became  visible  beneath  the 
[323] 


THE  KING 

sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss 

mask  which  habit  made.  From  under  the 
snarling,  lifted  upper  lip,  long  teeth  pro 
truded  like  tusks,  and  his  voice  was  hoarse 
with  wrath. 

"Rahel,  did  you  do  that?" 

No  answer. 

"Rahel,  I  say,  did  you  do  that?" 

The  strain  of  the  day  and  the  past  two 
weeks  had  exhausted  her.  The  face  that 
looked  back  at  him  was  as  white  and  as 
emotionless  as  the  dead.  In  the  dulled  eyes 
shone  no  light  of  comprehension. 

"God  of  Abraham!  —  and  painted  in  the 
place  sacred  to  Jerusalem  and  the  Tem 
ple!  Never  shall  I  gain  the  vision  —  never! 
never!"  His  shrunken  body  quivered  like 
a  leaf  in  the  wind.  "Now  I  shall  never 
gain  the  vision!"  Tears,  pitifulness,  a 
world  of  disappointment,  trembled  in  his 
voice. 

"I  have  sinned  grievously.  I  have  not  kept 
the  Law.  It  says :  '  If  thy  right  hand  offend 
thee,  cut  it  off.'  And  I  let  her  live  when  she 
[324] 


8888888888g88888888gg88gg888888g8888888 

THE  KING 


offended  first  —  I  let  her  live  —  Oh,  God  of 
Abraham  —  I  let  her  live  —  " 

"Do  you  understand  what  you  have  done; 
that  you  have  defiled  the  house;  that  you 
have  broken  the  express  command  of  the 
Torah  :  '  Thou  shalt  have  no  other  Gods  be 
fore  me;  '  that  you  have  kept  me  from  the 
vision?  Do  you  understand?"  The  old 
anger  flashed  its  wild  light  over  his  face  and 
rang  tempestuously  in  his  voice.  "Do  you 
understand?" 

"  There  !  —  take  that  !  —  and  that  !  —  "  He 
struck  her  upon  the  head  with  all  the  force 
of  his  uplifted  arm.  "I  will  seal  up  the  door; 
I  will  disclaim  to  my  God  accountability  of 
this  room  and  its  contents!  Now,  O  God,  I 
have  done  as  Thou  commandest:  'If  thy 
right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off." 

In  falling,  Rahel's  temple  struck  a  stone 
uncovered  of  plastering  at  the  foot  of  the  old 
rabbi's  wall,  and  she  lay  motionless,  a  thin 
stream  of  bright  blood  trickling  down  her 

cheek. 

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888888888888888888888888888888888888888 

THE  KING 

888888888888888888838888888888888888888 

After  fastening  the  door  and  sealing  it 
securely  and  disclaiming,  as  was  the  custom 
on  the  eve  of  the  Fourteenth  of  Nisan,  ac 
countability  for  anything  forbidden  found 
beneath  his  roof,  he  went  back  to  his  blind 
and  aged  wife,  where  he  said  grace  with 
fervent  solemnity  and  partook  of  the  sacred 
meal. 

That  night  the  Hamburg  fire  broke  out. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  Ghetto  barely  escaped. 
They  were  well-nigh  forgotten.  When  the 
gate-keepers  remembered  them  and  let  them 
out,  they  were  on  the  verge  of  being  roasted 
like  rats  in  a  trap. 

Among  the  first  to  reach  the  Great  Gate  and 
wait  were  Gaon  and  his  wife.  Rahel  was 
not  with  them.  Faithful  to  his  vow,  he  had 
left  the  door  of  the  old  rabbi's  room  sealed 
and  fastened. 

The  devastation  of  that  terrible  fire  is  a 

matter  of  history.     It  is  numbered  among 

the  calamities  that  have  befallen  the  human 

race.     When,  days  later,  the  fire  had  sub- 

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&yx&yyzzx&z/5&!^^ 


THE  KING 


sided,  nothing  of  the  swarming  Ghetto 
buildings  was  left  but  charred  and  crumbling 
wood. 

When  Easter  dawned,  bright  and  smiling, 
there  still  rose  from  this  burnt  and  blackened 
district  wreaths  of  smoke  and  white  steam, 
up-curling  reverently  round  the  base  of  the 
indestructible  stone  of  the  old  rabbi's  wall 
which,  alone,  of  all  the  Ghetto,  still  stood 
erect,  ascending  like  a  peace  offering  of  incense 
toward  the  glorious  figure  that  looked  down 
from  above,  a  figure  glowing  with  youth  and 
beauty,  and  framed  in  the  glittering  light  of 
spring  —  radiant,  triumphant,  indestructible, 
immortal  —  the  King  —  the  Hebrew  Christ  ! 


THE   END 


[327] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  033  660     2 


